Chapter 4

On the anniversary of my mother's death, I wore all black, a single white rose pinned to my chest and stood at the center of the estate's great hall. The guests wore dark colors and spoke in low voices.

After paying their respects, they filed past the altar one by one. Members of the family, associates, old friends of my mother's. Everything should have ended quietly. But as I was guiding the staff to seat the guests, a voice came from the doorway, soft but pointed: "Oh... why is everyone wearing black?"

I looked up and saw Dante standing at the entrance. Behind him stood a woman holding a cake box tied with a pale blue ribbon, folded neatly. She wore a light dress, her hair half-braided, small pearls hanging from her ears.

She leaned forward to look inside. Her gaze moved across the room and stopped on my mother's photograph at the center of the altar, framed by flickering candles. "Oh... today... someone passed away?"

She looked down at the cake box in her hands, as if only then realizing she had brought the wrong thing. "I am so sorry. I did not know... this cake, should I not have brought it?"

She stood there holding the cake box like a butterfly that had wandered into the wrong funeral, waiting for someone to tell her what to do.

I stepped forward without thinking and blocked her path. "Get out. Who let you in?"

The woman stumbled back, almost losing her balance. Dante reached out and caught her. I stared at him, my voice shaking. "Dante. This is my mother's memorial. You brought her here?"

All the guests went still, their eyes turning toward us. Serena looked stunned for a few seconds, and then her eyes filled with tears, as if on cue. "I... I did not know... I really did not know today was your mother's memorial. I just came because Dante asked me to..."

Dante glanced at her, then back at me. His voice was calm. "Yvette, she just brought a cake. If you do not want her here, I will take her back. There is no need to make a scene in front of everyone."

I stared at him and let out a dry, hollow laugh.

My mother had treated Dante like her own son when she was alive. She had set a place for him at her table, pressed her hand to his cheek, whispered blessings over him in the old language. Those blessings were meant for family. She gave them to him.

And now he had walked through her candlelit altar with another woman beside him, stood in front of the flames I had lit for her, and told me I was making a scene.

I lifted my head and met his eyes. My voice did not shake. "Dante, today is my mother's memorial. You brought your signed singer, carrying a cake, into her altar room, and you are asking me why I am making a scene?"

His face darkened. "Yvette," he said, his voice low, "I told you she was just passing by. Do you have to make everything so difficult?"

He did not look at me again. He turned and guided Serena toward the door, his hand resting on the small of her back, as if protecting something that might break.

I took a deep breath. Then I turned around, put on the smile Elena had taught me, and walked through the remaining guests. I thanked each one, said goodbye, shook hands, as if nothing had happened. No one would say that Yvette Bellini had lost her composure at her own mother's memorial.

When the last guest left, the estate's heavy front door closed behind them. The whole house fell into that particular silence that only old houses and old grief can hold. I walked slowly back to the altar, knelt in front of the small shrine, the photograph, the candles, the white rose I had placed there that morning. I let the walls I had held up all evening fall.

"I am sorry, Mama." My voice was barely a whisper. "Today was your day, and I made a scene. I am sorry. Let us not talk about the painful things."

I pressed my fingers to the cool edge of the frame. "Mama, I prepared a room for the baby. Will you come see it?"

I lifted the framed photograph and carried it down the hall to the small room at the end. I had spent weeks getting it ready, fresh paint on the walls, light curtains, the crib by the window. But when I pushed the door open, I stopped. The room was empty. The baby clothes in the dresser were gone. The toys on the shelves were gone. Nothing was left.

I thought someone had broken in. I called the estate security. The guard hesitated before answering. "Madam... it was not an outsider. It was the Don. He sent his men to take everything."