Alessandro hadn't spoken to his father in eleven months.
Not because he didn't want to. Not exactly. It was more that every time he picked up the phone, something in his chest locked up — a quiet, stubborn refusal that had calcified over years of silence into something that felt permanent. Eduardo Castellano wasn't the kind of man you called to talk. You called him to report. To update. To confirm that the world was turning exactly the way he'd arranged it to turn.
And Alessandro was done confirming things.
So when the call came on a Wednesday morning — not from his father, but from his mother, Lucia — Alessandro almost didn't answer.
"He's in the hospital," she said. No preamble. Lucia had never been one for small talk. "Heart attack. Last night."
Alessandro set down his coffee cup. "How bad?"
"Bad enough." A pause. "He's asking for you."
