I was still confined to a hospital bed owned by the famiglia, my body sluggish and unreliable, like it hadn’t yet realized how much had been taken from it. My arms ached constantly, deep and hollow pain from the blood loss, and sitting upright for more than a few minutes sent the room tilting. But none of that compared to the weight crushing my chest—a grief so heavy no sedative could dull it.
I was grieving my child.
While I lay there beneath stark white sheets, surrounded by the quiet beeping of machines that measured survival but not loss, the world seemed eager to remind me just how insignificant my suffering was.
News of Don Zachary Moretti and Nina reached me without warning or mercy.
A former social acquaintance forwarded a video first—a glittering charity gala attended by political allies and rival families alike. Zachary stood at the center of it all in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, relaxed, amused, one arm draped possessively around Nina’s waist. She leaned into him with practiced ease, radiant, victorious.
Another clip followed soon after.