The door opened hard enough to strike the wall.
Lorenzo stood in the doorway, one hand still gripping the brass handle. Vincent hovered behind him, his usually composed face strained, while two security men remained farther down the corridor.
Sophia jerked beneath the blanket.
The sound she had made vanished as quickly as it had come.
I felt her fingers tighten around mine.
Lorenzo’s eyes moved from his daughter to me.
“Leave us,” he said.
The guards disappeared first. Vincent hesitated.
“Sir—”
“Now.”
Vincent withdrew and closed the door behind him.
The room fell silent except for the faint mechanical rhythm of Sophia’s infusion pump.
Lorenzo crossed the carpet slowly. The anger in his face was controlled, but only just. I had seen that kind of restraint before. It was not calmness. It was force contained by habit.
He stopped beside the bed.
“What were you singing?”
Sophia’s hand trembled in mine.
I kept my voice low. “She’s frightened.”
“I asked you a question.”
“And I heard it.”
His jaw tightened.
I shifted slightly, placing myself between him and the edge of the mattress without making the gesture obvious. “This is not the place.”
“This is my daughter’s room.”
“Exactly.”
For one dangerous second, neither of us moved.
Then Sophia made a small sound.
Not a word. Barely more than a breath.
But Lorenzo heard it.
His expression changed.
The anger did not vanish. It cracked.
He looked down at her as if he were afraid to hope. “Sophia?”
She turned her face toward the window.
He took another step, but the moment he reached for her, she pulled the blanket to her chin and shut her eyes.
The hurt that crossed his face was so naked I almost looked away.
Almost.
Lorenzo lowered his hand.
When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.
“Where did you learn that song?”
I had imagined this moment for years.
In some versions, I told him everything. In others, I denied knowing Juliana until I found what I had come for. Sometimes I pictured myself walking into his study, placing the truth on his desk, and watching his certainty collapse.
But I had never imagined Sophia between us.
Never imagined her fingers wrapped around mine.
“My mother sang it to me,” I said.
It was not a complete lie.
Lorenzo studied me.
“Your mother was Neapolitan?”
“No.”
“Then who taught it to her?”
“I don’t know.”
His eyes hardened again. “You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to let your daughter rest.”
He glanced toward Sophia. Her breathing had become shallow, though I could tell she was pretending to sleep.
“You knew the final verse,” he said. “Juliana changed the words. She never sang the original ending.”
My heart stumbled.
I had not known that.
The version Juliana taught me had always been the only version I knew.
“I learned it that way,” I said.
“From whom?”
Before I could answer, the infusion pump gave a soft warning chime.
I turned toward it immediately.
Sophia’s line had kinked beneath her wrist.
I adjusted the tubing, checked the flow, and waited until the alarm stopped. By then, the color had drained further from her face.
“She needs quiet,” I said.
Lorenzo remained beside the bed.
He seemed torn between demanding an answer and obeying the fear that lived inside every parent of a sick child.
At last, he stepped back.