Below the balcony, the rosebush shivered in the wind, its petals wet with snow.
A white fur stole clung to the thorns.
Beneath it—Caterina's body.
Still.
Finished.
Inside, the air was locked in ice.
From the far hall came hurried footsteps, hard against the floor.
Matteo burst through the door, breathing hard.
"Luca—what—"
The words broke.
On the floor, Luca's mother.
Beyond the window, Caterina in the snow.
Both scenes in one frame.
Matteo's face drained to ash.
Bianca turned, voice wet with tears.
"Matteo… Mama pushed Luca's mother. She hit her head—hard. And when we came in, Mama screamed and ran for the balcony—"
Matteo stood still a moment, then called over his shoulder.
"Doctor. Now. And get word to the master."
A guard nodded and disappeared.
Luca sat at the bedside, fingers on his mother's wrist.
The pulse was faint. Her eyes were heavy.
Matteo stepped close.
"I'll guard this room. No one comes in. No one."
It sounded less like a promise than an oath.
Two days passed. Luca barely left the east wing.
The fire was fed.
Cloths were changed.
The hours bled together.
Just before dawn, her breathing faded.
In her last moment, her fingers brushed his hand.
"Your name… keep it. Let no one take it."
"I promise."
The warmth left.
The room went still.
The funeral was quiet.
Servants in black lined the gates.
As the casket passed, Luca stopped.
Above the hill, the pale winter sun lit the falling snow.
From somewhere far off, a bell rang.
That evening, Matteo closed the annex drawing room door.
"Sir Georges leaves for Canada tonight. The car's already waiting."
"Why?"
"Better you hear it from him. He wants to see you."
Milan Malpensa
Floodlights stretched long across the tarmac.
Georges stood at the steps of the jet, heavy coat, small case in hand.
"It's colder here than in your blood, Luca.
Remember—
when someone crosses the line, give them mercy once.
The second time… never."
"Yes, Uncle."
A short smile.
"I'm done with your father. But if you ever need me—call."
"I'll remember."
Georges gripped his shoulder.
Then he was gone, swallowed by the plane.
The engines hummed. The jet rolled away.
Luca watched until the lights vanished.
That night, the estate's air was lighter—but wired.
The master gone.
The mistress dead.
His mother buried.
Every gaze in the house weighed where the power would fall.
The chairs at the table hadn't moved.
The eyes around them had.
Bianca sat beside him, small hand on his sleeve.
"It's just us now."
Luca looked to the darkened window at the head of the table.
"Don't worry. I'll protect you."
At the far end of the corridor,
the painted eyes of long-dead ancestors watched from their frames.
In their shadow,
a twelve-year-old boy was already moving the next piece.