Vanya stared at me.
Long. Searching.
Something twisted in his face—fear, anger, betrayal all colliding at once.
“Nonsense,” he snapped suddenly. “My mother is dead. Stop trying to confuse me.”
He shoved himself away from Dmitri, small chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides.
“Dad, don’t lie to me,” he cried. “Don’t make a stranger my mom. My mom is dead.”
His voice broke, tears spilling over despite his effort to be brave.
“And if you don’t bring Aunt Seraphina back before tomorrow—”
He swallowed hard, eyes bright with pain.
“—I’ll hurt myself.”
The words hit like a gunshot.
Before anyone could move, he spun and ran—toward the side door, shoulders stiff with six-year-old fury and terror.
The sight of him retreating—my baby, rejecting me, choosing a lie over my truth—hurt worse than anything the Albanians had ever done. Worse than bullets. Worse than chains.
Giovanni reacted instantly. “I’ll go after him.”
He was already moving, long strides eating the distance as he disappeared through the door, leaving silence behind.
I stood frozen, heart shattered in my chest, watching the space where my son had been—wondering how you survive loving someone who doesn’t remember you at all.
I swallowed hard, my throat burning as if I’d been screaming instead of standing silent.
The cathedral felt cavernous now—too large for what remained inside me. Victory echoed off stone walls, hollow and cruel.
Dmitri pushed off the pew and came to stand beside me, close enough that his presence pressed into my awareness whether I wanted it or not. He didn’t reach for me. He never did anymore—not without permission.
“I’m giving your girls the option,” he said quietly. His voice had lost its edge, stripped down to something almosthuman. “They can stay here in Lake Como—safe, protected, with whatever resources they need. Education. New identities. Money that’s actually theirs. Or we help them return home—wherever that is. No obligations. No surveillance. No strings.”
I nodded, though my mind lagged behind the words. “I’ll speak to them,” I said. My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.
I lowered my head, staring at the worn marble beneath my feet. Everything had been restored—territory, power, influence. The council was ash. The traffickers were dead or dying. The girls were free.
And yet the one thing that mattered most had been taken permanently.
My son’s memory was gone. Not hidden. Not buried. Gone.
How do you convince a child who believes you’re a ghost?
How do you reclaim a place in a heart that has already learned to mourn you?
He was six—yes—but sharp. Too sharp. Too observant. Too stubborn. Too wounded by adults who’d lied to him for years and called it love.
Dmitri spoke again, softer now, like he was choosing each word with care. “Vanya will come around. Trust me.” A pause. “We can run a DNA test. Show him the science. He’s smart enough to understand it.”
I let out a breath that trembled. “He might think we forged it,” I whispered. “He’s been taught not to trust evidence—only stories.” I lifted my chin slightly. “I’ll win his heart again. No matter what it takes.”
Dmitri didn’t argue. He only nodded once.