Chapter 3

The lights in the downtown apartment never came on before midnight again.

For an entire week, it was as if Charles had vanished from the face of the earth.

Reports on family affairs were delivered to the study at the estate every day, stacked high like mountains. I reviewed them, made decisions, issued orders.

Everything ran smoothly—more efficiently, even—because there were no last-minute cancellations for Evelyn, no distracted delays.

Only once did I attempt to call his private number.

It rang seven times before he picked up.

The background was noisy—wind, muffled laughter, and voices.

“Erika?” His voice held a trace of irritation, as if my call had interrupted something.

“What is it?”

“The Russians are requesting early delivery on the shipment at the Northwest docks. Antonio’s unsure. He needs your—”

“You handle it.” He cut me off, tone firm and final. “You’re in charge. I don’t have time right now.”

In the background, Evelyn’s voice cooed, “Charles, come quick, the stars are so clear out here…”

“Coming.” He covered the mouthpiece, his voice turning soft, tender.

Then, to me again, cold and businesslike. “Anything else? If not, I’ll hang up. Evelyn’s not in a good place emotionally. I need to be with her.”

“Today,” I said, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white, “is my mother’s death anniversary.”

There was a pause. Just a few seconds of silence.

The wind on his end seemed to pick up.

“…I’m sorry, Erika.”

His voice finally carried a faint, genuine note of apology—but it was quickly buried under fatigue.

“You know how Evelyn is… She didn’t sleep again last night. I promised to take her camping on Mount Rainier today. It’s a long drive down. Next year—I’ll go with you next year, I promise.”

I listened to the careful tenderness he reserved for another woman, and something lodged in my throat. I couldn’t speak.

“I’ve already had Antonio order the best white lilies for the cemetery. They’ll be delivered on time.” He added it like a task checked off a list. “Tell your mother I’m sorry.”

“Charles,” I finally found my voice. It came out raw and cracked. “My mother doesn’t want your apology.”

She would only look at me—her foolish daughter, who chose a man over her and never saw her one last time—and shake her head in quiet disappointment.

The call ended.

The busy tone beeped in the silent study, sharp and jarring.

I set the phone down and walked to the window.

The estate lawn was immaculately trimmed. The forest beyond had turned a deep, brooding green under the twilight.

It was beautiful. Silent. Like a lavish tomb.

On the way to the cemetery, a light rain began to fall.

Seattle rain was always like this—fine, lingering, like tears that never stopped.

My mother’s grave was in a quiet corner, surrounded by white camellias—her favorite flowers when she was alive.

The Churchill family cemetery was heavily guarded, but still felt desolate. My father rarely visited. He said every time he saw the stone, he remembered her eyes still fixed on the door, waiting, even as she closed them forever.

I placed the enormous bouquet of white lilies before the grave. Rain dotted the petals.

“Mom, I’m here.”

I crouched down and gently wiped her photo on the headstone with a handkerchief.

She was beautiful. Even on that cold porcelain plaque, her radiance, the charm that once captured my father’s heart, still shone through.

But there was always a hint of sorrow in her eyes—a shadow left by a life spent married to a mafia man, always on the run, always afraid.

“I did another foolish thing,” I said, smiling through the tears that mixed with the rain. “Just like you once did. I picked a man with more dangerous things on his mind.”

Her photo stared back at me in silence.

“He wasn’t always like this,” I murmured, as if trying to convince her. Or myself.

“He used to remember every little thing about me. He used to shield me from everything. He’d hold me all night when nightmares came…”

“Mom, tell me—how do people change so fast?”

The rain grew heavier, soaking my shoulders, but I didn’t move.

“I think I’m leaving,” I whispered, my voice dissolving into the rain. “Going somewhere far. Like you once dreamed of doing, but never could.”

She had always wanted to leave Italy, to escape the mafia’s shadow, to live a quiet life in America.

But until her death, she was never truly free.

“Don’t blame me, Mom.” I touched the cold stone, as if caressing her cheek. “This time, I won’t become another version of you.”

I stayed there for a long time.

Until the sky turned completely dark and the groundskeeper signaled with a flashlight from a distance.

When I stood, my legs were numb.

I looked at her photo one last time, then turned and walked into the rain.

Goodbye, Mom.

By the time I returned to the estate, it was eight in the evening.

To my surprise, the lights in the living room were on.