Two years later, I left the theater's grand lobby in falling snow. An armored Maybach waited at the curb with its engine running.
Through the window, Cassius looked down at our daughter, Seraphina, bundled in her car seat. I smiled before I reached the door.
As my bodyguard opened the car door, a bone-thin figure in rags stumbled out of a dark alley. He carried a crude wooden crutch under one arm, and his right trouser leg hung empty.
Dante.
My security team moved instantly, forming a wall.
"Wait," I said.
My men stopped. I took a step forward. He was shivering, his breath pluming in the frigid air.
"Aria," he rasped. "Before I die, did you ever really love me?"
The question hung between us. He watched my face, waiting for one memory he could still claim.
I looked at what remained
