TWELVE HOURS

PART 2 — THE THING HE NEVER KNEW

Three days after our son’s funeral, Damian Moretti returned to the mansion.

He expected to find me in our bedroom, crying, waiting for him to apologize.

Instead, he found my wedding dress hanging in the closet, my jewelry gone, and every photograph of us removed from the walls.

On the bedside table lay a second envelope.

Damian opened it with trembling fingers.

Inside was a document from our family attorney.

A legal withdrawal.

My name had been removed from the Moretti family trust, the private investment company, and the foundation I’d spent five years building with him.

But one paragraph made his blood run cold.

I had also withdrawn my signature from the agreement that allowed Damian to use my family’s inheritance as collateral for his European expansion.

He immediately called his financial director.

“What does this mean?”

The man hesitated.

“Sir, without Mrs. Moretti’s authorization, the European acquisition cannot proceed. The banks have already frozen the final transfer.”

Damian slammed his fist against the desk.

“Get her on the phone.”

“We’ve tried, sir. She instructed her lawyer not to disclose her location.”

“Then find her!”

His financial director lowered his voice.

“Sir, there’s something else. Mrs. Moretti transferred her personal shares three weeks ago. The transaction was entirely legal.”

Damian froze.

Three weeks.

That was when he’d been in Capri with Alessia.

That was when I’d called him every night, asking him to come home early because I was worried about the pregnancy.

He remembered telling me he was busy.

He remembered sending me flowers instead of returning.

And suddenly, he realized something.

I hadn’t left because our son died.

I’d been preparing to leave long before that.

Meanwhile, I was staying in a small apartment near Lake Michigan.

It wasn’t luxurious, but it was quiet.

For the first time in years, nobody guarded the front door. Nobody checked my phone. Nobody decided where I could go.

On the seventh morning, my lawyer, Daniel, arrived with a folder.

“Claire, Damian’s attorneys have contacted us. They want to negotiate.”

I looked at the little wooden box on the shelf.

Inside were my son’s hospital bracelet, his white hat, and the tiny photograph I’d taken beside his incubator.

“What do they want?”

“Your return. Apparently, Mr. Moretti believes this can still be repaired.”

I gave a small, bitter smile.

“Can he repair twelve hours?”

Daniel said nothing.

“Can he give my son another heartbeat? Can he let me hold him again?”

My voice cracked.

“Tell them there is nothing to negotiate.”

That afternoon, Damian sent his first message.

Claire, please answer me. I need to see you.

I deleted it.

Then another arrived.

I made a mistake. I know I failed you. But you’re still my wife.

I stared at those words for a long time.

Then I replied.

I was your wife when I begged you to come home. I was your wife when our son died. You remembered that only after I stopped waiting.

I blocked his number.

But Damian wasn’t finished.

That evening, he arrived at the Moretti mansion’s private chapel, where our son’s funeral photograph still stood.

He placed a tiny silver bracelet beside it.

Then he whispered something no one in his organization had ever heard him say.

“I’m sorry, son. Daddy was late.”

For the first time, the feared mafia boss cried without trying to hide it.

And he finally understood that money couldn’t buy him another chance.

But Alessia had no intention of letting him grieve in peace.

Because she had just discovered that Damian’s marriage wasn’t the only thing he’d lost.

He was also about to lose his empire.