Page 115 of Forgive Me, Father

My hand was either going to burn tonight, teaching my wife a lesson in tardiness, or, I refused to think about the ‘or.’

I stepped back into our private section of the restaurant and made my way to my father’s table.

“Camilla’s missing.I have to leave,” I said, my voice low but firm.

My father looked up, eyes narrowing.“Alfonso…”

“Don’t.That is the last thing I want to think about.But here is a warning, if he is behind this, I will burn his entire family to a crisp.”I left and rushed to the SUV.

I texted Camilla again.

You better answer your phone in the next half hour.

I hit send and hoped, prayed, that she was just out somewhere, drunk, high on life, and completely safe.Any other possibility clawed at the edge of my mind, and if it proved true, the part of me I kept caged, the beast, would be unleashed without mercy.

* * *

She still didn’t pick up half an hour later.No text.Nothing.Nico’s mom confirmed Camilla hadn’t come home, and the worry spread through me like a virus—slow, cold, and nauseating.

My father kept texting, message after message, wanting updates, asking if she’d been found.I ignored him.I couldn’t deal with his questions, not now.

The plane touched down around eight, and Nico drove us straight home.

His mother was waiting at the kitchen table, pale and trembling.The moment she saw Nico, she broke down in tears.He crossed the room without a word and wrapped his arms around her.

“She’s still not back?”I asked, voice tight.

“No, Alfonso,” Nico’s mom said, eyes red.

I pulled out my phone and immediately called the security company.“Track Camilla’s car.I need its location now.”

“We’ve got it,” the operator replied.“It’s parked in a lot across from St.Mark’s Square.”

“Send me the PIN.”

The moment it came through, I ended the call and headed straight for the Lambo.Nico followed without a word.The drive to St.Mark’s Square didn’t take long.The pin led us to one of the smaller cars Camilla sometimes drove.

She wasn’t in it.No sign of her.No bag, no jacket—nothing.

I felt a knot tighten in my gut as I dialed the number I’d used to book her art class.A man answered.

“Was Camilla there today?”I asked.

“Yes,” he said.“She arrived a little late, but she was in great spirits.Very excited.Honestly, she has a real gift; her work today was one of the standouts.”

“Do you know what time she left?”

“We went for coffee as she wanted to ask me a few things.”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

“Around five, I’d say,” he added casually.

“Which café?”I asked, the unease rising fast in my chest.

He gave me the name, and I drove straight there.It was still open, crowded with tourists and locals.I pushed through and flagged down the first barista I saw.

I explained the situation—my wife, missing—but he just blinked at me, clueless.Didn’t remember her.

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