Page 142 of I'm sorry, Princess

Her eyes widen, not with surprise that I know, but that I’m asking.

“Don’t lie to me, Mother.” My voice is lower now, rougher. “I’m here because I need your help to understand. All these years I thought my father was someone… and now I know he was someone else. He beat the Attorney General to death and walked away from it. He was involved with Cosa Nostra.” I lean closer. “What else?”

Her eyes glisten, her voice trembling. “Your father was a good man.” She swallows hard. “I’m so sorry for what happened to him.”

“I’m not asking for condolences.”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, and now her voice cracks. Tears spill over. “Thomas Beaumont and John Archibald are bad men.”

The name makes my blood go cold. I never mentioned John. Not once.

“You know about Archibald?”

She grips my hand like she can anchor me in place. “Please, stay away from them.”

“Did they have something to do with his death?”

Her tears come faster, her words breaking apart. “My dear son, there’s so much you don’t know.”

“Then tell me!” The snap is out before I can stop it. Regret hits immediately when I see her flinch.

“They’re both bad men,” she whispers. “If he finds out you’re with his daughter, he will kill you.” Her voice shakes harder. “I like Serena. She’s a good person, with a lovely heart… but please, stay away from them.”

And just like that, she pulls her hands from mine and leaves the kitchen.

I hear her in the hall, hear Serena’s soft, sleepy voice, “Are you okay?” and my mother’s choked reply: “You’re a lovely girl.”

Serena’s confusion is clear in her voice, but my mother is already walking away, leaving behind the smell ofespresso, the sting of old lies, and more questions than I came here with.

Serena steps toward me, her brows drawn in concern. I can’t tell her what I’m thinking, not yet. Hell, I don’t even know what I’m thinking. My mother just confirmed, without saying it outright, that my target isn’t just Thomas Beaumont… it’s Archibald as well. She didn’t flinch when I said what I knew, but she gave me nothing useful either. Is she afraid? Is she protecting me? Or is she protecting herself because they really did kill my father? Is that why she’s been tucked away here in Florence like a ghost for years?

“Is everything okay?” Serena asks gently. “Why was Sofia crying? Have you been mean to her?”

A humorless smile pulls at my lips. “I wish that was the case.” My voice is low, rougher than I intend. I don’t have a single clear answer, only a mess of possibilities. “Get dressed. I want to go somewhere.”

She tilts her head, curiosity flickering, but she doesn’t press. “Okay.” She leans down, presses a soft kiss to my lips, sets her coffee down, and disappears back toward our bedroom.

Fifteen minutes later, she’s back, fresh-faced, beautiful, like she walked straight out of a painting. I’m still at the table, lost in my head. The fact that I’m about to take her to my father’s grave… I can’t decide if it’s an act of trust or insanity. My father would probably roll in his grave if he knew who I was bringing.

We head out to the car. Nicolas offers to drive, but I refuse. I need to do this myself. Just me, and the man who made me who I am.

The cemetery isn’t far. The closer we get, the quieter my thoughts become, not calmer, just quieter. Like the silence before a storm.

We pull into the small gravel lot. The gates rise ahead, tall and wrought iron, their black paint chipped from years of sun and rain. Beyond them, the grounds are lush, green, almost beautiful. You wouldn’t think this place held so much grief. Every stone is a name, a story. A father. A mother. A child. Too many endings.

We step through the gate, walking the narrow path between rows of graves. Serena’s hand is in mine, warm, grounding. I feel the slight tremor in her fingers. She’s looking around quietly, reading names as we pass. When her gaze catches on a tiny headstone, a baby’s, her eyes glisten. No grave should ever be that small. She holds the bouquet we bought on the way, her knuckles white around the stems.

My father’s grave isn’t far from the entrance. I spot it instantly, the tall stone, polished marble, his name carved deep in clean letters:

Giovanni Moretti

In loving memory of a devoted husband, father, and friend.

Your strength, wisdom, and love remain with us forever.

1957 – 2015

There’s a photo set into the stone, him smiling, proud, the kind of look that used to make me feel like I could take on the world. My chest tightens. 2015, the year my life broke in half. The year I stopped being just a son and became a man with blood on his hands.