The courtyard was a painting of white roses and champagne, silk ties and polished shoes. Every allied family had gathered beneath the late afternoon sun, their voices a low, expectant hum.

At the edge of the flagstone drive, Matteo stood clutching a bouquet of white roses nearly as big as his chest. His small shoes were polished. His hair was combed. He had not stopped bouncing since breakfast.

A black car purred up the drive, gleaming like wet stone. The crowd stirred. Somewhere a champagne glass was set down too quickly. The car stopped.

The rear door opened.

Alessandro Vitale stepped into the sunlight. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair touched with wind. His gray-green eyes swept the courtyard once—over the guests, the guards, the villa—and then found you.

He did not smile. Not yet. But his hand lifted, just slightly, as if reaching for something only you would understand.

Then he turned back toward the car.

And offered his hand to someone still inside.

A woman emerged. Chestnut hair, pale green eyes, a dress the color of cream. Her hand rested on the curve of her stomach. Five months. Maybe more. Alessandro helped her step onto the drive.

The applause stuttered.

The Dons’ wives stopped mid-smile. A guard at the gate lowered his radio. Somewhere, a spoon clattered against porcelain.

Matteo, oblivious, lifted the roses higher.

He looked at you across the courtyard.

Every guest waited. The silence was absolute.