Chapter 8 - The Desperate Pursuit
The flight to Malpensa was eleven hours of pure psychological torture.
Jason sat in the middle seat of row 44, wedged between a crying toddler and a snoring businessman. His cheap suit was wrinkled, his shoes scuffed, his breath sour. He had spent the entire flight clutching an old silver locket he had found in the bottom of a storage box—a locket Anna had given him on their fifth wedding anniversary containing a tiny photograph of Ethan as an infant.
He landed in Milan with eighty-four euros in his pocket and a dying cell phone.
The city was vast, ancient, and utterly indifferent to him. Jason couldn't speak a word of Italian. He wandered through the central train station, his heart pounding, clutching a crumpled printout of an article announcing that the Moretti Consortium was hosting its annual Gala of Restoration at the historic Palazzo Reale that very evening.
He spent forty euros on a cheap shave and haircut at an immigrant-run barbershop near the station, and another twenty on a second-hand tie from an open-air market stall.
By seven in the evening, Jason stood across the street from the grand facade of the Palazzo Reale.
The square was bathed in golden floodlights. Red carpets stretched from the entrance to the curb, flanked by velvet ropes and hundreds of international press photographers. Sleek black limousines and vintage Alfa Romeos pulled up one after another, discharging ambassadors, fashion icons, and European nobility draped in diamonds and couture.
Jason hid in the shadows of the ancient stone colonnade, his teeth chattering from a mixture of cold and raw adrenaline.
Then, a midnight-blue Bentley Continental smoothly pulled up to the main carpet.
The liveried driver stepped out and opened the rear door.
Julian Sterling stepped out first. He looked breathtakingly regal in a bespoke midnight-blue velvet tuxedo, stepping aside to extend his hand into the carriage.
A woman took his hand and stepped onto the red carpet.
The flashes from the paparazzi erupted like a blinding wall of lightning.
*“Francesca! Francesca, over here!”*
*“Signora Moretti! Just one photo for Vogue Italia!”*
Jason gasped, the breath entirely leaving his body.
It was Anna.
She wore a breathtaking, sculptural gown of midnight-blue silk velvet with an off-the-shoulder neckline that exposed her porcelain collarbones. Around her throat rested an antique diamond-and-sapphire necklace—the legendary Moretti heirloom that Jason had once dismissed as “old family junk that should be appraised for insurance.”
Behind her, the driver helped Ethan and Sophie out of the car.
Ethan wore a miniature tuxedo identical to Julian’s, walking with his head held high, waving politely to the cameras with the natural poise of a young prince. Sophie wore a delicate ivory lace dress, clutching a small satin purse, her smile bright and radiant as she held Julian’s hand on one side and Anna’s on the other.
They were a family.
A complete, radiant, unbreakable family.
And Jason Carter was standing across the street in a second-hand tie, smelling of sweat and stale coffee, completely invisible.
Something snapped inside Jason’s chest. The last shred of his sanity gave way to an overwhelming, volcanic wave of entitlement and desperation.
“Anna!” he shouted.
His voice was lost in the roar of the crowd and the clicking shutters.
He shoved his way through the spectators gathered along the perimeter. “Excuse me! Get out of my way! That’s my family! That’s my wife!”
The Italian onlookers frowned, murmuring in annoyance as the disheveled American pushed past them.
Jason broke through the outer cordon. He lunged toward the red carpet, dodging a bewildered security guard who reached for his jacket.
“Anna!” Jason screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice cutting through the courtyard like a gunshot. “Anna! Look at me! Ethan! Sophie!”
The red carpet went dead silent.
The photographers paused, lowering their long lenses.
Anna stopped at the top of the grand marble steps. Slowly, with measured, exquisite grace, she turned around.
Ethan and Sophie froze, turning beside her.
Julian stepped forward instantly, placing himself half a step in front of Anna, his gray eyes turning to shards of ice.
Jason ran toward the base of the steps, his chest heaving, his face flushed red, tears streaming down his unwashed cheeks.
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“Anna, please!” Jason cried, dropping to his knees right at the edge of the velvet rope, holding up the silver locket with trembling hands. “It’s me! It’s Jason! I came for you! I came to bring you home!”
***
