As I unpacked, I tried to push thoughts of Dominic from my mind, but they crept back like smoke under a closed door. His voice. His hands. The way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching, as though I were something precious and breakable. The way he looked at Chiara when everyone was watching, as though she were something he owed.

Just as I was pulling a fitted sheet over the mattress, my phone vibrated again. I hesitated before picking it up, certain it would be Ivo circling back for another round, or worse, Chiara calling to deliver some saccharine apology designed to twist the knife. But when I saw the name on the screen, my heart lurched against my ribs.

Dominic.

My breath came thin and shallow as I read the message.

"Neve, please. Can we talk? I need to see you."

I stared at the screen until the words blurred. Did he really think he could fix this with a handful of words on a glowing rectangle? After everything? After today?

My hands were shaking when I typed my reply.

"I don't think that's a good idea right now."

Before I could even set the phone down on the nightstand, it rang. Dominic's name filled the screen, pulsing with each vibration. I hesitated, my finger hovering over the decline button, but something stopped me. Some stubborn, traitorous part of my heart that still wanted to hear his voice. I took a deep breath and answered.

"What do you want, Dominic?" I kept my voice as steady as a blade balanced on its edge.

"Neve, it shouldn't have gone this far. Let's talk about this. Please." His voice carried that particular blend of desperation and warmth that had always undone me. The voice of a man who commanded a hundred soldiers but couldn't command the woman he was promised to.

"Why? So you can cancel again?" My voice climbed despite my efforts to hold it level. "So you can tell me how much you care while you keep putting Chiara first?"

"No. I wanted to explain." A pause. I could hear him breathing, measured and deliberate, the way he breathed before difficult negotiations. "I know you're hurt. I understand it. This isn't because of Chiara. I am the Don. I am responsible for every member of this Family's safety. She is under my protection. That is an obligation my father swore on his deathbed. You know this."

I scoffed, shaking my head even though he couldn't see me.

"Dominic, she is always injured. Every single time something important is about to happen for us, she collapses. Don't you find that a little odd?"

"Come on, Neve." Irritation sharpened his tone, the Don bleeding through the lover. "Anything can happen during combat training. You push yourself, you get hurt. Injuries are part of learning. Any recruit could understand that."

The words hit like a slap.

"Are you trying to say I'm childish? And Chiara getting injured every single time is not behaving like a child herself?"

"No, that's not what I meant." He caught himself, pulled back. "You have every right to be upset. We have been preparing for the ceremony for months. But you know we can never predict what will happen. Chiara's injury wasn't even that serious. She'll heal in a day or two. We can reschedule the union. What is a day or two?"

What is a day or two. As though the date meant nothing. As though I hadn't spent weeks with Nonna Lolita choosing flowers and fabric. As though the entire Family hadn't been gathered. As though my heart hadn't been laid bare on a silver tray for everyone to see, only to be pushed aside for a girl with a bruised ankle and a rehearsed whimper.

"I can't do this right now." My voice trembled despite every effort to hold it still.

"Neve, please. I just need you to hear me out. Can we at least meet? Just to talk." He was pleading now, and the sound of it was almost worse than the anger. Dominic Valente did not plead. Not with rival bosses. Not with federal prosecutors. Not with anyone. Only with me, and only when he knew he had lost ground he could not afford to lose.

"Talk? About what? About how you chose Chiara over me?" I pressed my free hand flat against the bare mattress, steadying myself. "You know what? I'm done hearing excuses."

"It's not an excuse. I just need a moment to explain everything. I thought you would understand my position. Being the Don, carrying the obligations of the Family. This isn't just about us, Neve."

"Right. Because your obligations are clearly more important than what we have. I understand that, Dominic. I do. But that doesn't change how I feel."

He sighed, and I could hear the frustration in his breath, heavy and controlled, the exhale of a man who was used to having the final word in every room he entered.

"You're right, it doesn't. But I never wanted to hurt you. I just wanted to do what was best for the Family. You know I care about you. You know that, don't you?"

"Do I?" The question came out quieter than I intended, almost fragile, and I hated myself for it. "Because it doesn't feel that way. You keep saying you care, but your actions tell a different story, Dominic. Every single time."

He drew breath to speak again. I could feel it coming, the same lecture, the same sermon about duty and honor and the weight of the Valente name. He couldn't stop himself. It was as though I were a junior associate who needed to be educated on the realities of the life, a child who couldn't grasp what it meant to sit at the head of La Tavola d'Oro.

I ended the call without asking permission. Without a goodbye. Without giving him the courtesy of a final word.

The phone rang again almost instantly. Dominic's name glowed on the screen, insistent, commanding, the way everything about him was commanding. I watched it ring. Once. Twice. Three times. Then I reached over, held the power button, and watched the screen go black.

The apartment was silent. The city hummed faintly beyond the window, indifferent to the woman sitting alone on a bare mattress in a cold room, holding a dead phone in hands that would not stop shaking.

Laughter rolled through the grand salon of the Valente compound like smoke from a hundred cigarettes, thick and warm and impossible to escape. Ivo's birthday had drawn the entire Family together, every soldier, every associate, every wife and cousin and distant relation who owed their livelihood to the Valente name. Crystal clinked against crystal. Someone had put on old Sinatra records, and the brass notes drifted beneath the noise of conversation like a current beneath a river.

I scanned the room from my place near the head of the long dining table. Neve stood at the bar across the salon, a glass of untouched Barolo in her hand, half-turned toward one of the Family's private physicians. She was engaged in conversation but not entirely present. Her eyes had that faraway quality, the look of a woman whose mind was somewhere else entirely. It didn't matter. I was glad she came.

She had been busy. The work at La Voce Nera had consumed her for weeks, and Ivo had mentioned she wasn't in the mood for a party. But here she was, dressed in black silk, her dark hair pinned back, looking like she belonged in every room she entered. That was Neve. Always doing the right thing. Always putting others before herself.

"Dominic!" Chiara's voice cut through my thoughts, bright and deliberate. She appeared at my elbow, those wide, hopeful eyes turned up at me like a child asking for permission. Her left arm rested in a sling, the bandage visible beneath the sleeve of her cream-colored blouse.

"Could you help me with the prawns and the crab? I can't peel them with my arm like this."

I hesitated. My gaze drifted back toward Neve, still standing at the bar, still talking to the physician. I had meant to go to her. I had meant to pull her aside, ask her how she was, tell her something. Anything.

But Chiara was standing right in front of me, injured, waiting. I couldn't leave her hanging. The debt of honor my father had sworn to her dead mother hung over every interaction like a rosary around a sinner's neck.

"Sure," I said, and moved to sit beside her at the table.

"Thank you. You're a lifesaver." Chiara's smile was radiant, the kind of smile that made everyone in the room believe she was exactly what she appeared to be: fragile, grateful, harmless.

I picked up a prawn and began working the shell free with my fingers. Then a crab leg. The work was tedious, beneath the dignity of a Don in most circumstances, but this was different. This was Chiara. The obligation was clear. Other members of the household could be demanding in their own ways, but this particular duty carried the weight of blood.

"You're always so kind to me, Dominic. I don't know what I'd do without you." She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing mine.

"It's nothing. Just doing what I should."

The shell cracked between my fingers. I set the clean meat on her plate.

Ivo appeared then, two tumblers of aged scotch in his hands. He set one in front of me and dropped into the chair across the table, loosening his tie with his free hand. His dark eyes flicked to Chiara, then to me, and a knowing look crossed his face.

"You really know how to make a man feel useful, huh?" He raised his glass in a mock toast. "What a gentleman."

I chuckled and slid another peeled prawn onto Chiara's plate.

"Just helping a member of this Family who needs it."

Ivo leaned back, swirling the scotch in his glass, and let his gaze drift across the room to where Neve stood. She was alone now. The physician had moved on. She held the same glass of Barolo she'd been holding since she arrived, the wine untouched, the stem turning slowly between her fingers as if she were counting the minutes until she could leave.

"Hey, Dominic." Ivo's voice dropped a register, casual but pointed. "Why don't you peel some of those for Neve? I'm sure she'd appreciate it too."

I frowned. The suggestion landed wrong, like a stone dropped into still water. I hadn't come here to spend the evening shelling plates of seafood for every person in the room. Neve was perfectly capable of doing it herself.

"Neve's fine. She's just taking a break," I said, and the words sounded hollow even to my own ears.

Ivo raised an eyebrow. He took a slow sip of his scotch and set the glass down with a deliberate clink.

"You really think so? She doesn't look so happy."

"Of course she's fine. She understands I'm here for Chiara because she's hurt. It's not a big deal." I forced a smile and glanced toward Neve. She stood with her arms at her sides, her jaw tight, her eyes fixed on some middle distance that included neither me nor anyone else. She looked irritated. More than irritated.

Chiara's gaze darted between us, quick and alert beneath those long lashes. Her expression shifted, the brightness dimming into something softer, more concerned. She set down her fork and pressed her good hand to her chest.

"I hope I'm not causing trouble between you two." Her voice was barely above a whisper, threaded with worry. "I wouldn't want Neve to feel like I'm coming between you. After all, she is your betrothed, Dominic. She deserves some attention from you, too."

"No, you're not," I replied quickly. Too quickly. Doubt crept in through the cracks of my certainty like cold air through an old window. I caught Neve's eye across the room, and for one brief second our gazes locked. Then she looked away, sharp and final, as if cutting a thread.

"She knows I'm just helping."

I peeled another crab leg and set the white meat on Chiara's plate. The silence between my words felt heavier than it should have.

"You're such a good Don, Dominic." Chiara tilted her head, studying me with an expression that hovered between admiration and something else I couldn't name. "It's nice to see you take care of your Family."

I shrugged, dismissing the praise. "It's just what I do. You're part of this Family, Chiara. It's my responsibility to make sure everyone is safe."

She smiled again, that same luminous, practiced smile, and leaned close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something floral and expensive.

"Still, you make it look effortless."

I couldn't help but return the smile, but my gaze betrayed me. It drifted across the room to Neve. She had moved away from the bar entirely, retreating to the far wall near the entrance to the foyer. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she watched us with an expression that had gone past irritation into something colder. Something I didn't recognize.

A pang of unease settled beneath my ribs, but I brushed it off. She had to understand. This was simply part of what it meant to lead the Family. The debts we carried were not optional.

When the main course was served, platters of ossobuco and risotto alla Milanese carried in by the household staff on silver trays, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Neve had never been this angry. Not like this. She had always understood the obligations, the weight of my father's promises, the impossible balance I had to maintain. She had never made things difficult.

"Neve, want some prawns?" I called out across the room, trying to break the ice that had formed between us.

She looked up. Her expression was neutral, controlled, the face of a woman who had decided exactly how much of herself she was willing to show.

"No, I'm good. Thanks." Her voice was steady but distant, as if she were speaking to a stranger.

Before I could respond, Ivo leaned forward in his chair and raised his voice with theatrical warmth. "Come on, Neve. You can't just stand over there all night. Join us. Dominic's practically the seafood king over here."

Neve smiled. It was polite, precise, and completely empty.

"Really, I'm fine." She set her untouched glass of wine on the nearest surface. "I think I'm going to head home."

"Already?" I straightened in my chair, genuinely surprised. "It's still early."

"I've got work tomorrow." She smoothed the front of her dress with both hands, a gesture of finality. "Tell Ivo happy birthday for me."

She looked at me then, and her eyes were dark and quiet and stripped of every trace of warmth they used to hold. It was like looking at a photograph of someone I once knew.

"Wait." I stood immediately, my chair scraping against the marble floor. "Let me walk you out."

"There's no need. I'll be fine." Her voice was firm, the kind of firm that left no room for negotiation.

A tightness coiled in my chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

"Neve, come on. We barely got to talk tonight. Can't you stay a bit longer?"

"I can't. I really need to go." A thread of frustration pulled taut beneath her words, and then she turned.

Just like that. She walked toward the door without looking back, her heels clicking against the polished stone in a rhythm that sounded like a countdown. I watched her disappear through the arched doorway into the foyer, and my stomach twisted into a knot I couldn't untie.

What was going on with her?

Chiara looked up at me from the table, her lower lip trembling, her eyes glassy with the threat of tears that seemed to materialize whenever the moment required them.

"She seems upset. Are you sure everything's okay?"

"Yeah, she's fine," I replied, but my voice lacked conviction. I was still staring at the empty doorway.

"I can't help but feel like I'm causing problems." Chiara pressed her fingers to her lips, her brow creasing. "I'm sorry about my injury yesterday. I didn't mean to come between you two. I'm sure she was deeply hurt that your wedding got postponed. The blood-bound union. I would feel the same way, too."

"You're not causing anything. Neve knows that." I sat back down, but the chair felt wrong beneath me, like the room itself had shifted. "It's just... she's tired, I guess. I'll text her."

I pulled my phone from the inside pocket of my jacket and typed with both thumbs: Neve, let me know when you get home. We need to talk.

I hit send.

The message failed. A small red icon appeared beside it, mocking and absolute.

I frowned. Tried again. Failed again. I pressed the call button and lifted the phone to my ear. It went straight to voicemail, that automated voice reciting her number back to me as if I didn't already know it by heart.

I lowered the phone and stared at the screen in disbelief.

Neve had blocked me.