The car rolled to a stop in front of the mansion.

The driver waited for instructions.

Donatello didn’t speak.

He didn’t move.

His eyes were still on Camilla’s reflection in the window. Her face was calm now, but something fragile lingered there — a quiet sadness he couldn’t understand and didn’t want to understand.

Why was he looking at her?

Why did he even care that she cried?

Annoyance crept under his skin.

The driver glanced in the mirror. “Sir—”

“What?” Donatello ...