Chapter 3 - The Architecture of Grief
The first week was a masterclass in controlled chaos. The Romano estate was a marvel of modern architecture—all glass, steel, and stark, brutalist angles—but it felt like a mausoleum. Beatrice quickly learned that the house was run on a strict, militaristic schedule designed to suppress any form of genuine emotion.
Her room was located in the east wing, a luxurious space that felt like a gilded cage. But Beatrice didn't spend much time there. She spent her days navigating the labyrinth of the house, trying to reach Leo.
Leo was a ghost. He moved through the halls without a sound, his eyes constantly scanning for threats that weren't there. He was a boy who had learned that to be seen was to be vulnerable, and to be vulnerable was to be hurt.
Dominic, meanwhile, was a constant, looming presence. He worked out of his office, emerging only for meals or to check on Leo with a stiff, awkward intensity. Beatrice watched him from the periphery—a man who had conquered the city but couldn't conquer his own guilt.
“He keeps looking at the door,” Beatrice said to Dominic one evening. They were in the kitchen, an expansive space that felt like a laboratory. Dominic was nursing a glass of bourbon, watching Beatrice prepare a simple grilled cheese sandwich for Leo.
Dominic stiffened. “He’s expecting her to come back.”
“She isn't coming back, Dominic,” Beatrice said softly, not looking up from the stove. “He needs to know that. Not just with words. With consistency.”
Dominic looked at her, his brow furrowed. “You don't understand the world I live in, Beatrice. Everything is temporary. Everything is a risk.”
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“Everything is a risk,” she echoed, her voice steady. “But you’re losing him to that fear. He’s five years old. He needs to know that he’s safe, even if the world isn't.”
Dominic didn't answer. He turned and walked out, his shoulders hunched under the weight of an invisible burden.
