Chapter 3 - The Broken Mask
Evelyn gasped, stepping backward onto the carpet, clutching her bruised wrist against her cream cashmere dress. Her eyes dilated in absolute, horrified disbelief.
“Luca…?! What did you just say to me?!”
“I said leave,” Luca repeated, rising to his full six-foot-three height.
He stood towering over his wife, his posture radiating that terrifying, lethal aura that usually preceded the total destruction of a rival corporation.
“Our lunch is canceled. Our evening is canceled. Do not call my office, do not call my mother, and do not speak another word in this room. Go.”
Evelyn looked around the dining room. Every high-society eye in Chicago was pinned on her. Her cheeks burned with a deep, humiliating crimson. She opened her mouth to argue, but when her gaze collided with the cold, murderous darkness in Luca’s eyes, the words died in her throat.
She turned on her designer heels, clutching her purse, and fled through the restaurant doors in a flurry of humiliated silk and clicking pumps.
Luca didn't spare her a single backward glance.
He turned back to our table.
He pulled out the empty chair beside Leo, slowly lowering himself into it, his large hands resting flat against the white tablecloth. His fingers were still trembling.
“Nia,” Luca murmured, his voice thick with an agony so profound it felt palpable. “Please. Look at me.”
I looked at him.
I saw the hollow shadows beneath his eyes. I saw the fine lines around his mouth that hadn't been there four years ago. I saw the man who had conquered the Chicago commercial skyline, the man who was worth four point eight billion dollars on the New York Stock Exchange, sitting before me looking completely, utterly bankrupt.
“I went to three specialists, Nia,” Luca whispered, his eyes welling with rare, burning tears. “Over the last six months. In Chicago. In New York. In Zurich.”
My heart skipped a beat, but I kept my face an impenetrable mask of stone.
“And what did they tell you, Luca?”
“They told me the same thing Dr. Sterling told us five years ago,” Luca choked out, burying his face into his calloused hands. “There was never anything wrong with me. But there was never anything wrong with you, either. It was unexplained idiopathic sub-fertility. Stress. Timing. Hormonal imbalance caused by the grief of my father’s death.”
He lifted his head, his slate eyes wild with grief.
“I spent four years believing you were the broken one, Nia. I let my mother tell me that our bloodline was dying because of your genetics. I let my own arrogant, narcissistic pride convince me that walking away was the only way to build an empire.”
He reached out, his hand hovering over the edge of Leo’s drawing, terrified to touch the paper, terrified to contaminate the innocent reality I had built without him.
“And the entire time… my son and daughter were growing up three miles from my tower.”
“They didn't grow up three miles from your tower, Luca,” I said softly.
Luca frowned, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”
“We lived in Seattle for three years,” I replied. “I took my half of the modest divorce settlement—the settlement your lawyers forced me to sign under non-disclosure clauses—and I bought a small bakery near Pike Place Market. I worked sixteen-hour shifts with flour on my apron while carrying twins. I gave birth alone in a municipal hospital while you were on the cover of Forbes celebrating your merger with Shaw Maritime.”
Luca flinched as if I had driven an icepick between his ribs.
“My children don't know who Luca Moretti is, Luca,” I continued, my voice steady as an iron beam. “They know that their father was an ambitious man who loved his work more than his family. They know that Mommy bakes bread, that we have a dog named Barnaby, and that our home is safe.”
Leo suddenly reached out, picking up his blue crayon, offering it toward Luca’s open palm.
“Do you want to color the periscope, mister?” Leo asked innocently. “You look like you need a color.”
Luca looked down at the tiny, worn wax crayon.
A single, hot tear broke from his eye, spilling over his sharp cheekbone, falling onto the pristine white linen.
May you like
He took the crayon into his massive, scarred hand with the gentle, terrifying reverence of a priest receiving a sacred relic.
“Yes, buddy,” Luca whispered, his voice cracking completely. “I’d love to color the periscope.”
