Burned Out of the Moretti Name Chapter 07

Burned Out of the Moretti Name Chapter 07

Lorenzo went straight from the coast to Bianca’s penthouse.

When the door opened, she looked relieved to see him.

“Lorenzo, I knew you’d come back.”

He cut her off by shoving her against the wall.

The smile vanished from her face.

“Lorenzo.”

“Why?” he said.

She stared at him, confused for half a second, then frightened.

“Why did you keep going after her?” His voice was low and deadly calm. “The looks at the auction. The little comments. The way you made sure Sofia saw just enough. Why?”

Bianca’s eyes filled at once.

He tore the phone from her hand and opened it. It took him only moments to find what he needed, the saved stories, the filtered audience list, the pattern he had been too willing to ignore.

Sofia had not imagined any of it.

Bianca had curated it for her.

When Lorenzo looked up again, there was nothing left in his expression.

“You wanted her humiliated,” he said. “You wanted her pushed out.”

Bianca was crying now, reaching for him and stopping herself halfway.

“I was jealous,” she said. “That’s all. I was jealous because I love you. Every time you went back to her, every time you looked at her like she still mattered more, I couldn’t stand it.”

Lorenzo said nothing.

She took that silence for space and rushed into it.

“I know I went too far. I know that. But I only wanted you to choose me.” Her voice broke “I never thought

it would turn into this.”

He let out a cold, humorless laugh.

“Choose you?”

She flinched.

“You mistook indulgence for importance,” he said. “That was your first mistake.”

Her tears came harder.

“Lorenzo, please.” She moved closer, soft now, pleading. “I was stupid. I was angry. But I love you.”

“And Sofia?” he asked. “What did you think she was supposed to feel while you did it?”

Bianca had no answer.

He stepped closer.

“She cut herself out of every photograph in that house,” he said. “She left her ring behind. And tonight I

stood outside a burning apartment with her phone in my hand.”

The color drained from Bianca’s face.

He saw it happen and felt only disgust.

“Lorenzo…” she whispered. “I didn’t know. I swear to you, I didn’t know any of that.”

“No,” he said. “You only knew enough to keep hurting her.”

She reached for him again, desperate now, and caught his hand in both of hers.

“Lorenzo,” she said, crying openly now, “I’m pregnant.”

She thought she had found the one thing that could stop him.

Her voice turned softer, trembling with urgency. “You can’t leave me like this. Not now. It’s your child.”

Lorenzo looked down at her hand over her stomach, then back at her face.

Nothing in him changed.

When he spoke, his voice was flat.

“If that’s true,” he said, “take care of it.”

Bianca stared at him as if she had misheard.

“What?”

“It changes nothing.”

He caught her wrist, pulled it away, and let it drop.

Then he struck her.

Bianca staggered, one hand flying to her cheek, shock wiping the tears from her face for a second.

Lorenzo looked at her with something colder than anger.

“You should have stayed away from her,” he said.

She stared at him, crying for real now.

He turned for the door.

“Lorenzo!”

He stopped without looking back.

“From this moment on, you don’t leave this apartment unless I say so.”

Her voice broke. “You can’t do that.”

“I can do far worse.”

He walked out.

By the time he reached the car, the rage had burned itself raw, leaving only grief behind.

The car stayed parked across from the burning apartment, engine running, the smell of smoke still drifting in through the night air.

Lorenzo sat in the back seat with Sofia’s ring closed in his palm.

Outside, emergency lights flashed over the wet pavement. Men moved in and out of the cordoned-off entrance. Radios crackled. Somewhere above, glass shattered and fell.

Lorenzo said very little.

Hours passed.

The flames were finally gone by the time the sky began to pale, but the apartment was blackened through, its windows broken open to the sea air.

Still Lorenzo did not move.

One of his older men came to the car and stood outside the open door.

“You should go home,” he said quietly.

Lorenzo kept looking at the ruins.

“She left her ring behind,” he said at last.

The man said nothing.

After a moment, Lorenzo added, “She cut herself out of every photograph in that house.”

His voice was flat now, worn down past anger.