The next morning, I went to the gallery.

Not to pick a gift for Bianca, of course. I was there to finish one last job.

Restoring the only piece of my mother I had left. A portrait of her.

Damon had pulled strings to get it back for me from a failing pawnshop two months ago.

The smell of turpentine hit me like a hook, dragging me back five years.

I was just a poor art student then, an orphan working shifts at a coffee shop to pay tuition.

I painted in my spare time, dreaming of my own gallery show.

Then one day, a rich bitch from school poured a scalding latte all over my final project.

"Oops," she sneered. "Something this pathetic was never going to hang in a gallery. I was just helping you take out the trash."

I tried to fight back, but her friends cornered me, and a slap stung my face.

That's when Damon appeared.

He wasn't the monster he is today. Back then, he wore an expensive, handmade suit. A god who’d stumbled into the wrong part of town.

He was just passing by, talking about an art exhibition, but he stopped.

He didn't touch her. He just looked at her. A single, chilling glance. The next day, her family vanished from New York.

I thought he was my knight.

He gave me a job at his gallery, a chance to be around the kind of art I’d only ever dreamed of in the slums.

Then, three months later, I was working a late shift when a few guys from a rival family cornered me.

They thought I was just some girl he was screwing, a way to humiliate the new boss on the block.

Damon came.

This time, he was no gentleman.

He was a demon straight from hell. No words, no negotiation. Just violence.

I watched him snap the leader's arm with his bare hands. After a bloody fight, we escaped.

That night, he threw me, still shaking, into his sports car.

He pushed the car to 120 mph.

The roar of the engine drowned out my screams.

"Scared?" he asked. The car was parked on a cliff edge. One hand was on the wheel, the other was stroking my lips.

"Damon… please stop…"

"No. You need to remember this feeling." His eyes were wild, manic. The adrenaline from the near-death fight had lit a fire in him.

He took me right there, on the edge of a cliff, the car still humming with speed. It wasn't love. It was a conquest, suspended between death and a pleasure so sharp it felt like pain.

"You're mine, Nora," he said, biting my neck as he came.

Ding.

The sound of the shop's bell snapped me back to the present.

I looked up. A woman was standing in the doorway.

Bianca Torrino.

She wore a white Valentino dress, a pearl necklace gleaming under the lights.

She wasn't here to buy art. I could see it in her eyes.

She was here to mark her territory.

"So this is Damon's little painter?" she said, looking me up and down like I was a piece of furniture. "I hear you're good at fixing old things."

She walked over to my mother's portrait.

"It’s a shame old things are so worthless," she said with a smirk. "I hear this pathetic painting is all you have left. The only link to your pathetic past."

My fists clenched.

"Don't look at me like that," Bianca said, pulling out her phone with a vicious smile. "This is his idea."

She made a video call.

The screen lit up with Damon's face. He was sitting in the Torrino family mansion. I could even see Bianca's father in the background.

"Nora," Damon's voice crackled through the speaker, cold and dead. "Show your future queen some loyalty. Destroy the painting. Do it yourself."

My blood ran cold.

"Don't make me repeat myself," he said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. His tone was the one he used to command his dogs. "Or I'll have my men burn it down. Along with the gallery."

I stared at the face of the man I’d loved for five years.

For business. For a deal. He was going to make me snuff out the last light in my world with my own hands.

"What? Cat got your tongue?" Bianca taunted. "Looks like Damon's 'creation' isn't so obedient after all."

I took a deep breath, swallowed my tears, and smiled.

I looked at Damon through the screen. "Fine," I said, my voice even. "As you wish."

With Bianca’s triumphant gaze and Damon’s cold stare watching me, I picked up a palette knife.

A tool meant for creation, now an executioner's blade.

I slashed the blade across my mother's face.

Once. Twice. Three times.

With every cut, I wasn't just tearing the canvas. I was severing the last thread of love I had for him.

Bianca hung up, satisfied. She scoffed and turned to leave. "Make sure you clean this up. I don't want Damon's places to have this kind of filth lying around."

The sound of her heels faded away.

I was alone. I didn't cry. I just knelt in the ruins of my past, picking up the pieces. One by one. Like I was burying a body. Just like I did with my mother.

My phone vibrated.

[Come to the Safe House tonight. I'm hurt. I need you.]

I stared at the message, at the casual command, "I need you."

The old me would have dropped everything, run to his side, ready to take another bullet for him.

But now, looking at my hands covered in red paint, the man who had made my heart race for five years felt like a complete stranger.

He wasn't hurt.

He just needed to make sure his dog was still on its leash.

I stood up and threw the paint-soaked rag in the trash.

"I'll be there, Damon," I whispered to the empty room.

This is the last time I'll ever patch you up.

The safe house was in an old building in lower Manhattan.

My fingerprint opened the lock.

Damon was sitting on the sofa.

Unexpectedly, he was really injured.

His left shoulder wrapped in a makeshift bandage. Blood was already soaking through the white gauze.

"Who was it this time?" I asked, pulling out the medical kit.

"Some punk from the Kozlov family," he grunted. "Thought he could make a move on my turf."

I cut away his shirt.

The bullet had grazed his shoulder blade. Not deep, but it needed stitches.

Damon's muscles tensed as the needle pierced his skin.

Pain always made him more dangerous, like a wounded animal.

Twelve stitches later, I was about to wrap the wound when he yanked me into his lap, crushing my mouth with his. Every thrust was a claim. Mine. Mine. Mine.

But all I felt was tired.

When he was finished, he held me, his chin resting on my shoulder.

His fingers toyed with the Heart of Sicily on my ring finger.

It was an ancient, blood-red garnet ring, the symbol of the Vitale family matriarch.

Two years ago, after I took a bullet aimed at his heart, he got down on one knee and put it on my finger himself.

"Nora, you protected my heart," he'd said. "Now, let it protect you."

I thought it meant he was accepting me. That I could finally be by his side for good.

"Bianca showing up today was her own idea, but you handled it well," he finally said. "Tomorrow night, at the dinner, she'll be sitting next to me."

"I know." I closed my eyes.

He paused. His fingers slid off the ring, and his tone turned to ice. "And take that ring off. Put it back in my study."

My heart stopped. "Why?"

"Bianca won't like seeing it on you."

He let me go and stood up, looking down at me. "That ring represents the Vitale family. It belongs to the future queen of this family. Not you."

The next night, the Vitale estate was lit up like a palace.

I didn't take it off.

The Heart of Sicily was still on my ring finger. A final, silent act of defiance.

Dressed in a simple black evening gown, I stood in the corner of the dining hall.

I used to sit at Damon's right hand, respected by the family's old guard.

Tonight, that seat belonged to Bianca.

"To the future Mrs. Vitale!" old Marcello raised his glass.

Bianca smiled elegantly.

"Thank you all for your blessings," she cooed. "I will do my best to live up to the Vitale name."

"But the shipping business after the wedding is the real prize," Antonio, one of the capos, said around his cigar. "The Torrino family controls forty percent of the East Coast ports."

"Exactly. This deal will double our power."

"You can keep the girl," old Salvatore said, glancing at me with contempt. "She's useful. A pretty little thing to handle the dirty work."

A low chuckle rippled through the room.

My cheeks burned, but my face remained a mask.

All eyes turned to Damon, waiting for his response.

"You're too kind," he chuckled. "She's just a pet. She won't get in Bianca's way."

That's when the old men's eyes darted to the ring on my finger.

Bianca moved closer to Damon.

She stroked his hand and purred, "Darling, I've heard the Vitale family has an heirloom, passed down for a hundred years. The 'Heart of Sicily.' They say only the true queen can wear it. Will I have the honor of seeing it tonight?"

Damon’s gaze flickered between me and Bianca.

Then, he stood up and walked over to me.

He didn't say a word. He just held out his hand, his eyes telling me to take it off myself.

My hand was shaking. The ring felt like it had grown into my flesh. It wouldn't budge.

I looked at him, one last silent plea in my eyes.

Damon's patience ran out.

He grabbed my hand and ripped the ring from my finger.

It was a tight fit. It tore the skin from my knuckle, leaving an angry, bleeding line.

He didn't even look at the wound. He just took the ring, walked back to his seat, and wiped my blood off it with his napkin. Like I was dirt.

Then he solemnly placed the Heart of Sicily on Bianca's finger.

"Now, it belongs to its true owner."

Bianca held up her hand, shooting me a look of pure triumph.

I clutched my bleeding finger, watching the ring sparkle on another woman's hand.

My five years of faith, the medal I'd earned with my life, had become a complete joke.

I didn't cry. I didn't break down.

Amid the celebration, I picked up a glass of champagne and walked slowly toward Damon.

As everyone watched in stunned silence, I raised my glass and smiled. My voice was calm.

"Congratulations, Godfather. And to you, Miss Bianca. Congratulations on your… meaningful hand-me-down."

I downed the champagne in one gulp, set the empty glass gently on the table, and turned to leave.

As I reached the door, Marco, Damon's actual assistant, stopped me. "Miss Nora," he said quietly. "The Godfather wants you to drive him and Miss Bianca back to the Torrino estate after the dinner."

I looked up at Marco, my face blank.

"Which car?"

"Your red Maserati."

I nodded.

A good pet knows when it's being punished.

You won't even remember this tomorrow, Damon. But I will. And after I deliver your final gift, I'll be gone forever.

The party ended close to midnight.

"Nora, drive us to the docks," Bianca said, clinging to Damon's arm. Her voice was dripping with smug command. "I want to feel the sea breeze with Damon. Talk about our honeymoon. Just the three of us."

Damon didn't object.

He didn't even look at me.

The car keys dug into my palm. "It's late. The docks aren't safe…"

"Are you questioning my decision?" Damon finally turned to me, his gaze like ice.

I closed my eyes.

"I'll get the car."

The docks were dead quiet at night.

Just the sound of waves hitting the pier and the distant horn of a cargo ship.

I parked near the lookout point. In the rearview mirror, I saw Bianca nestled in Damon’s arms.

"It's so beautiful," she said, loud enough for me to hear. "Can we come here every month for a date?"

"If you like," Damon replied, short and to the point.

Like he was completing a task.

It was enough to shatter my heart all over again.

Suddenly, the car doors were ripped open.

Six men in black surrounded us, all holding guns.

"Damon Vitale," the leader said in a low voice. "Long time no see."

I knew that voice.

Viktor.

Old man Kozlov's son. The craziest bastard on the East Side.

"Viktor," Damon's voice was calm. "What do you want?"

"You know what I want," Viktor sneered. "The Vitale-Torrino marriage will give you control of the entire East Coast."

"That's a threat to my family."

"So I've decided to break up the engagement."

The next thing I knew, a cloth was over my mouth. The sick-sweet smell of chloroform filled my lungs before the world went black.

When I opened my eyes again, I was on a derelict cargo ship.

The sea air was freezing.

Bianca and I were hanging from either side of the ship's bow, nothing but black water below us.

The ropes were cutting off my circulation.

"You're awake?" Viktor lit a cigar. "Good."

He pulled out a satellite phone.

"Damon, can you hear me? My men dropped you off back at your estate. How does it feel to be the one left behind?"

"Let them go. Now," Damon's voice crackled through the phone, thick with rage.

"Them?" Viktor laughed. "You're mistaken, Vitale. I'm only letting one go."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you have to make a choice," Viktor said, walking between me and Bianca. "Your future wife… or your favorite pet?"

"Before sunrise, you will trade your West Side weapons line for one of them."

"But only one."

Silence on the other end of the line.

A silence more terrifying than death.

"Damon!" Bianca screamed. "Save me! I'm your fiancée!"

I said nothing.

I knew who he would choose.

Business value. Family interests. The future of his empire.

I was an expired asset. Bianca was the key to an empire. The choice was obvious.

After a long silence, he gritted his teeth and spoke.

"I choose Bianca."

Three words.

They landed like knives in my heart.

"Excellent," Viktor nodded, satisfied. "In that case, this one is going for a swim."

He raised his gun and aimed at the rope holding me.

"No!" Damon yelled through the phone. "Wait! I can give you more!"

"Sorry. Rules are rules," Viktor said, pulling the trigger. "One for one. No bargaining."

Bang!

The bullet snapped the rope and grazed my arm.

A searing pain shot through me.

I was falling.

The water was ice cold, swallowing me whole in an instant.

Blood bloomed in the black water, a dying rose.

I was sinking.

Lungs burning. Vision fading to black.

Is this how it ends?

Five years of love, repaid with a bullet and a cold ocean grave.

I thought of every promise he ever whispered in the dark.

Lies. All of them.

Just as I was about to give up, a strong hand grabbed me.

Someone was pulling me up.

The moment my head broke the surface, I gasped for air.

"It's okay. You're safe now."

A voice with a Russian accent spoke in my ear.

Leo. Of course. He kept his promise.

The speedboat cut through the waves.

I was curled up in the cabin, soaked and bleeding.

But the wound on my arm wasn't what hurt the most. It was my heart.

The heart that had beaten for Damon for five years was slowly dying.

"Go ahead and cry," Leo said, draping a towel over my shoulders. "It will make you feel better."

"I won't cry for him," I said, my voice raw like sandpaper. "He's not worth it."

But the tears fell anyway.

Leo's private doctor cleaned my wound. The bullet had torn right through the scar I'd gotten from saving Damon the first time.

I snatched a scalpel from the tray beside me and aimed it at the wound.

"What are you doing?" Leo grabbed my wrist.

"Cutting him out of me," I said, my voice ice. "He put a tracker in me two years ago."

"Do me a favor. Put this on Damon's desk," I told Leo, my eyes dead calm. "A reminder of our anniversary. The day we met. A day he's long forgotten."

"As of tonight," I added. "Nora is dead."