Marco was buried two days later.
The Belloni family cemetery lay fifteen minutes from the estate, on a hill lined with olive trees.
As the men in black uniforms carried the casket up the slope, the pale Italian winter sun bled into the stone of the weathered crosses.
Luca stood watching, his face unreadable.
Beside him, his mother wept quietly beneath a black veil.
Caterina never once looked his way.
She moved among the priest and the guests with a poised smile, the perfect hostess.
The Empty Seat
At the first dinner after the funeral, roses and laurel leaves stood in the center of the marble table.
Marco's place—the upper right of the head—remained empty.
Whether it had been cleared for good or was waiting for its next heir, no one said.
Alessandro drank his wine in silence.
Caterina lifted her spoon, her voice smooth but without warmth.
"Luca. From now on, shooting practice will be after lunch. The guards will be rotated."
Luca met her eyes briefly, then nodded.
"Yes, ma'am."
The words were short, but the tone belonged to someone older than twelve.
Something flickered in her brow—a trace of wariness, as if wondering when this boy had changed.
A Whisper in the Hall
Later, in the corridor, Luca heard soft steps behind him.
Bianca—Marco's ten-year-old sister—stood in her white dress with a black ribbon in her hair.
"They all think you killed Marco," she said quietly.
Her voice carried curiosity more than fear.
Luca stopped, looking down at her.
"Do they?"
"Mm. But… I don't think it was you."
She nudged the carpet with the tip of her shoe.
"Your eyes don't look like someone who did it."
He didn't answer.
A faint smile touched his lips—something that held a strange pity for a child who still knew nothing.
The Blow
On the third day after the funeral, Alessandro was away with Georges on business.
The estate felt hollow in his absence.
In the east wing, Luca's mother lay in her bedroom.
Winter light pressed cold against the windows. The fire was nearly out.
A thin cough broke the stillness.
The door burst open.
Caterina entered in a long fur stole, her eyes sharp as glass.
Her heels struck the floor—tak, tak.
Luca's mother was half-propped against the headboard.
"Caterina… what—"
The slap cracked the silence.
A red bloom spread across her cheek.
"You know what your son's done?" Caterina's voice was ice.
"He killed Marco. Pretends he didn't. But I know. Who else could it be but that bastard?"
His mother shook her head, but the second blow landed before she could speak.
Her frail body slid toward the bed's edge—
Then the dull thud.
The back of her head met the marble.
Blood began to thread through her hair.
The Unraveling
The door opened again.
Luca and Bianca stood in the doorway.
Luca's eyes moved from his mother on the floor, to Caterina's hand, to her face.
Bianca's voice trembled.
"…What happened?"
Caterina's breath was uneven.
"It—it's not what it looks like, I—"
"A misunderstanding?"
Luca's voice was low, seeping cold into the room.
He stepped toward her.
The air seemed to tighten; shadows stretched along the walls, candle flames shivered.
Caterina backed away.
"It wasn't on purpose. You have to believe—"
"Belief,"
Luca said, his gaze deepening,
"is proportional to the power you hold."
Her eyes glazed.
Her breath came faster.
"Stop… stop it—!"
Her voice cracked into a scream.
Her hands clutched at her hair, her balance faltered.
The Fall
She turned suddenly, lunging for the balcony door.
Frosted air knifed into the room.
"Bianca—close your eyes."
Luca pulled his sister into his side.
A flash of white fur whipped over the railing—
Crack.
The sound of impact echoed up from the stone garden below.
Aftermath
Luca walked to the window.
Far below, Caterina lay still.
The rosebush in the corner of the garden was soaked a deep red.
He drew in a slow breath, turned, and knelt beside his mother.
"Mother… you've endured enough for me."
Bianca stood silent, tears in her eyes, staring at the balcony from which her mother had fallen.