Sofia Vitiello POV

The heavy thrum of the music pulsed through the floorboards of the VIP lounge. It was a private club, supposedly neutral ground for the Families, but tonight the Bellinis had rented the entire top floor.

I sat next to Matteo on the crushed velvet sofa. His arm was draped along the back of the seat behind me—never touching me, but aggressively claiming the space.

It was a territorial display. *This is mine. Do not touch.*

The room was thick with smoke and the sharp clink of expensive crystal. The Capos were laughing, while the soldiers stood like statues by the doors. It was a celebration of the alliance anniversary.

"Alright, bring it out!" someone shouted over the noise.

A heavy wooden box was heaved onto the central table. The Time Capsule.

Five years ago, during a truce party, the younger generation of the Families had written letters to their future selves. It was a stupid tradition, something Isabella had insisted on back when she was the center of Matteo's world.

I felt a prickle of cold sweat break out on my neck. I had forgotten about this.

"Let's see who predicted the future!" Marco, one of Matteo's soldiers, laughed as he cracked the seal.

He pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Isabella... wants to be a movie star."

Laughter rippled through the room. Isabella wasn't here yet. She was always late.

Marco reached in and pulled out another one. He unfolded it, and then he froze.

He paused. He looked at me, then at Matteo. The drunken grin faded from his face.

"Read it," Matteo commanded, taking a slow sip of his whiskey the same amber burn I despised, though he never bothered to remember that.

Marco cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "It's... it's from Sofia."

Matteo glanced at me. I stared straight ahead, my nails digging crescents into my palms.

"Read it," Matteo repeated, his voice lower, leaving no room for argument.

Marco unfolded the paper completely. His voice was hesitant. "I don't know if he will ever see me. I am just a shadow in the corner of the room. But today, he looked at me. He saved me from the riot in the East End. He doesn't know my name, but I know his. I love him. I love Matteo Bellini. I pray that one day, I can be the one to wash the blood from his hands, even if he never loves me back."

The silence in the room was absolute. It was heavier than the bass, louder than the shouting had been moments before.

I felt stripped naked. Five years ago, I was a naive girl with a diary. Now, those words hung in the air like a confession of a crime.

Matteo slowly set his glass down. He turned his head to look at me. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were wide, stunned.

It was the first time I had ever seen him look truly struck, like he had been punched in the gut.

He opened his mouth to speak. "Sofia..."

My phone didn't ring. His did.

It shattered the moment like glass. Matteo flinched. He looked at the screen.

He didn't answer it immediately. He looked at me again, searching my face, looking for the girl who wrote that letter.

The phone rang again. And again.

"Boss," Marco whispered, the tension palpable. "It might be urgent."

Matteo answered. He put it on speaker.

"Matteo! Help me! Please!" Isabella's voice shrieked through the quiet room. "They have guns! I'm at the warehouse district! They're going to kill me!"

The shock vanished from Matteo's face. It was replaced instantly by the mask of The Reaper. The beast woke up.

He stood up so fast the table shook. "Marco, get the team. Now."

"Matteo," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

He didn't hear me. He was already moving, checking the clip in his handgun. He was a blur of lethal motion.

"Stay here," he barked at me over his shoulder. "Don't move."

He ran out the door, his soldiers swarming after him. The room was suddenly empty, save for a few confused waiters.

I walked to the balcony. The rain had stopped. I looked down at the street.

I saw Matteo burst out of the club entrance. I saw him pistol-whip a bouncer who was too slow to get out of his way. He jumped into his car, tires smoking as he peeled out.

I watched him go.

He had heard the depth of my soul, the raw, bleeding truth of my love for him. And the moment another woman cried wolf, he left me in the silence.

He didn't rush out to save family. He rushed out because he couldn't breathe if she wasn't breathing.

I took the letter from the table. I tore it in half. Then in half again.

I dropped the pieces into an ashtray and lit them on fire.

"Goodbye, Matteo," I whispered.