Chapter 177: "Blue Bird"

Caio’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Mrs. Pecora’s hand remained steady on his shoulder, and the simple contact eased something inside him.

The prospect of sharing anything this personal with another person, however, had always filled him with discomfort.

Vulnerability was dangerous.

Confession was weakness.

Yet Mrs. Pecora had known him for fifteen years. She had seen him at his worst, at his most arrogant, and at his most insufferable. If there was anyone he could trust with this particular humiliation, perhaps it was her.

"Mrs. Pecora," he began, sounding calmer than he felt, "I genuinely don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do about her anymore."

His gaze drifted toward the ceiling.

"Part of me just wants to keep her all to myself. Every time I have her in my arms..." His mouth twisted into a weak, embarrassed smile. "...I find myself wishing I could lock her somewhere safe. Keep her there. Never let her out of my sight again."

A humorless laugh escaped him.

"It’s a horrible thing to think, I know. But I can’t help it."

His jaw tightened, as did the knot deep inside his chest.

"If I could do that, she wouldn’t be out there finding new ways to get herself into trouble. Nobody would be targeting her. Nobody would be trying to kill her. No other man would ever put his hands on her without me knowing."

Possessive anger flickered briefly across his face, before it faded into something quieter.

"But at the same time..."

He exhaled slowly.

"It’s not like I’m any safer. I’ve got a thousand fuckers trying to drag me off this throne every day. Half of them would celebrate if they managed to put a bullet through my skull."

Another laugh escaped him, but this one was bitter.

"I could walk into some event tomorrow and end up exactly like my father. Exactly like every other Don who thought he was too powerful to die in this damned city."

His gaze gradually lowered until it rested on the floor.

"So when I actually think about it... maybe it isn’t such a terrible thing that someone else might be willing to stay beside her. Someone else who’ll be there for her if one day..."

His voice grew quieter.

"...if one day I’m gone."

Silence settled over the vast dining room.

Mrs. Pecora had no immediate answer. Her chest tightened as she looked at him.

This was the man who ruled through fear, who had built walls so high around himself that even those closest to him rarely saw what lay behind them. And now he sat before her, stripped of all that authority, looking painfully, terrifyingly human.

"Sir," she said, her voice softer than anyone had heard from her, "it’s only natural to want to protect someone you love. Whether that desire takes subtle forms or more extreme ones... the desire itself isn’t wrong."

Her fingers tightened gently against his shoulder.

"But if you truly love someone, perhaps protecting them does not mean extinguishing their light."

Caio turned toward her, confusion briefly breaking through his misery.

"What do you mean?"

Mrs. Pecora held his gaze.

"Perhaps... you should want to help them shine even brighter than they already do."

His brow furrowed, and for a moment he looked thoroughly lost.

Mrs. Pecora smiled.

At least she had his attention now.

"Sir, I don’t know whether you remember this, but when I first began working for House Sartori fifteen years ago, there was a little blue bird that used to visit the garden."

The confusion on Caio’s face deepened.

’I just poured my heart out to her, and now she’s talking about a fucking bird?’

He was already regretting it — having shared that much about himself. Still, despite his irritation, he searched his memory until something surfaced.

"I remember it," he said slowly. "It was tiny. Barely bigger than my hand. It had bright blue feathers. Almost metallic when the sunlight hit them."

Mrs. Pecora’s face brightened.

"Exactly. That little bird loved the cherry blossom tree in the back garden. Whenever it came, it would stay almost the entire morning before leaving around noon. It sang, too. And its singing was marvelous."

Caio’s expression softened as more memories surfaced.

"I remember the singing."

"And you did love it," Mrs. Pecora added. "You had more freedom back then, so you spent a great deal of time wandering around the garden. Eventually, you became so fascinated with that little bird that you asked us what species it was. None of us knew."

Caio nodded slowly.

"You were also constantly worried about it," she continued. "You thought one day it might simply stop coming. Or that some larger bird would eat it. You worried it might be unable to find food."

Her voice lowered.

"And eventually, you decided the only way to make sure nothing happened to it was to keep it."

Caio went very still.

The memory returned in sharper fragments now.

The cage.

His childish excitement.

The tiny bird fluttering desperately inside.

"You had us catch it," Mrs. Pecora said gently, "and put it in a cage."

Caio’s gaze dropped.

At first, he had loved having the bird.

He remembered that much with painful clarity. He had carried the cage everywhere.

"I brought it with me," he murmured. "To my lessons."

Mrs. Pecora nodded.

"To all of your tutoring sessions. To the tennis court. To your laboratories. You even brought it into the dining room, despite how much your late father objected."

A faint smile tugged at Caio’s mouth.

"I wanted to hear it sing."

"And you wanted to watch its feathers."

"I did."

"You never grew tired of staring at them," Mrs. Pecora said. "You thought they were the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen."

Caio’s expression gradually darkened as he understood where the story was going.

Mrs. Pecora watched the realization unfold across his face.

"But eventually... you forgot something important. A bird is a creature of freedom. It belongs in the sky. Flying is part of its nature. A cage might keep it safe. But it isn’t a sky."

Her voice softened further.

"After a while, the bird began missing the sky. It ate less. Sang less. Those beautiful feathers started losing their shine because it barely ate anymore. And eventually..." she paused, "...it stopped singing for you altogether."

Caio had gone completely still.

The memory was no longer distant.

He could see the cage in his bedroom. Could see the bird perched silently inside it. Could remember the strange disappointment he’d felt when the creature he had once been obsessed with became too quiet to interest him.

"And what happened after that?" Mrs. Pecora asked. "Do you remember?"

His throat tightened.

"...I got bored of it."

Mrs. Pecora nodded.

"You did. You stopped carrying the cage around. Eventually, you left it with the staff to care for. You only visited occasionally. Sometimes, you did not visit at all. And when the bird eventually died... do you remember what you told me?"

Caio’s jaw tightened.

The guilt from that day returned with brutal force.

"I told you..."

His voice thinned.

"...that I wished I’d never captured it in the first place."

Mrs. Pecora allowed the words to settle over him. When she spoke again, her voice was scarcely louder than a sigh.

"Wouldn’t it be better to cherish the moments when the bird chooses to visit you? To let it fly wherever it wishes, knowing that when it returns, it comes because it wants to?"

Her smile deepened.

"Then you get to hear its most beautiful songs. You get to see its brightest colors. You get to watch it fly exactly as it was meant to fly."

For several long seconds, Caio said nothing.

’Lock her up somewhere.’

His eyes closed briefly.

’Keep her where only I can see her.’

’What have I been thinking?’

Of course, his jealousy had not vanished. Neither had the fear. One story about a bird couldn’t erase instincts he had spent his entire life cultivating.

But when he finally opened his eyes, something clearer had settled across his face.

Something resolved.

"Where is she now?"

Mrs. Pecora smiled as though she had been waiting for that question.

"In the garden with Biscuit, sir. Lady Ariana took him for a walk after dinner. She hasn’t returned yet."

Caio nodded and rose from his chair.

"Mrs. Pecora, would you get me a bottle of white wine?"

By now, Mrs. Pecora had served enough white wine that the request itself no longer surprised her.

A warm smile touched her lips.

"Of course, sir. I’ll bring one right away."