An associate working the books in his legitimate front.

A secret.

My injuries weren't serious, so the doctor kept me under observation for three days before discharging me. Everything was routine. Quiet. Uneventful. The private clinic smelled of antiseptic and old money, and the staff moved with the particular carefulness of people who knew better than to ask whose name was really on the bill.

The charges went through the Family's insurance arrangement, and whatever was left over was refunded directly back to Salvatore's account.

Three days.

Not a single visit.

Not even a message.

And then, on the day I was discharged, my phone rang.

"You're out already?" Salvatore's voice came through, casual, almost mildly annoyed. "You could've at least given me a heads-up."

I held the phone in silence.

"I've got a meet today," he continued. "Can't come pick you up."

"…Okay."

That was all I said.

I swallowed everything else. The questions that rose to my throat. The ones that used to matter.

I didn't ask where he was.

I didn't ask who he was with.

Instead, I opened my phone and checked his location.

A hotel. One of the ones on Family-controlled territory, the kind with discreet staff and no cameras in the hallways.

I didn't need him to explain anything. I didn't need confirmation.

Then, faintly, through the receiver, I heard a woman's voice.

"Come dry my hair, will you?"

The line went dead almost instantly.

He hung up.

I stared at my phone for a moment, unmoving.

Not long after, two transfer notifications popped up.

$1,314.

$1,520.

The numbers hit me harder than anything else.

They weren't random.

They meant something. They always had.

1314 meant forever.

1520 meant I love you.

For years, I had wished for this. For him to send me those numbers, for something so simple and symbolic. I had imagined taking a screenshot, posting it, just once, like everyone else. Just once, to show that I had something real.

But every time I brought it up, he refused.

He didn't like attention.

He didn't want people asking questions.

He didn't want anyone knowing. A Don's private life was a liability, he said. Something rivals could use.

And now… now that I had already decided to let him go, he sent them?

I didn't know if it was guilt. Or habit. Or something else entirely.

I opened his profile without thinking.

The moment it loaded, I froze.

His profile picture had changed.

It was a couple photo.

But not with me.

I didn't hesitate.

I returned both transfers immediately.

A few seconds later, my phone buzzed again.

A string of question marks.

I didn't reply.

When I got back to the apartment, nothing had changed.

Everything was exactly the same as the night of the gala. The same shoes by the door. The same jacket tossed over the chair. The same faint scent lingering in the air, cologne and something sharper beneath it, the ghost of a world where decisions were made in back rooms and sealed with handshakes that could never be taken back.

Which meant one thing.

He hadn't been back.

Not once.

I stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle around me. Then I took a deep breath, pushed down the tight ache rising in my chest, and started packing.

It didn't take long.

Piece by piece, the space began to empty.

Five years.

Five years of a life I had carefully built around him, dismantled in just a few hours.

Most of what I packed were things I had chosen myself.

Couple items.

Matching mugs. Coordinated clothes. Small decorations that hinted at something shared.

Salvatore had never liked any of it.

He never wore anything that could suggest he was taken. Never used anything too obvious. He said a man in his position couldn't afford to look soft. Couldn't give anyone a handle to grip.

I used to joke about it.

Saying he acted like some deep-cover fed, hiding his identity from the world.

Now I realized.

It was never a joke.

He just never saw me as someone he needed to claim.

I was halfway through packing when I heard the door open.

He came back.

"Elena, what's this about?" he snapped the moment he saw me. "I've been calling you! I told you to come out for dinner. You didn't pick up or reply!"

I didn't look up immediately.

The scent reached me first.

A woman's perfume.

Not mine.

Not even close.

Without thinking, I lifted my hand slightly, stopping him from coming any closer.

When I finally raised my eyes, they drifted to his neck.

Faint red marks.

Hickeys.

"Sorry," I said calmly, my voice steady. I smoothed the fold of a blouse flat against the suitcase lining, pressing the crease until it was sharp enough to cut. "I've been busy. Didn't check my phone."

He frowned, his gaze sweeping across the room.

Only then did he notice the suitcases. The empty shelves. The missing pieces.

"Don't tell me you've been busy tearing down the house," he said, irritation creeping into his tone. "You just got out of the clinic. You should be resting."

His eyes landed on a few unopened boxes I hadn't gotten to yet.

Inside were the couple items I had bought recently. Still new. Still unused.

"You don't want any of this?" he asked.

I bent down to pick one up.

Before I could even straighten, he reached out and took it from my hands.

"Fine, I'll throw them out for you," he said, almost impatiently. "But stop wasting money on useless stuff. What, do you think money grows on trees?"

His tone was casual.

Indifferent.

Like none of this mattered.

Then, as if nothing had happened at all, he added, "Go change. I'll take you out to eat."

Like this was just another normal day.

Like nothing was ending.

Instead, I walked out to the balcony.

From there, I watched him.

He carried the boxes downstairs and walked straight to the dumpster behind the building, past the black sedan idling at the curb where one of his soldiers sat waiting with the engine running.

No hesitation.

No second glance.

He tossed them in.

Just like that.

The same way he had thrown away our five years.

Effortlessly.

Like they meant nothing at all.

At the restaurant, a quiet place on neutral ground where the Family sometimes held private tables, he ordered several dishes without asking.

Most of them were our usual favorites.

The kind we always shared.

The kind tied to memories. Late-night laughter, old movies on the couch, lazy Sundays where time seemed to slow down and the world outside, with all its blood and obligation, couldn't reach us.

For a moment, it almost felt familiar.

Almost.

But then I saw it.

One more dish.

Bitter melon with scrambled eggs.

The one I hated the most.

He knew that.

He had always remembered.

Every little thing.

Until now.

My appetite disappeared completely, like something inside me had quietly snapped. The smell of the food, the low conversation at nearby tables, even the old Sinatra record playing through the restaurant's speakers all felt distant. I didn't feel like forcing myself anymore, didn't feel like pretending everything was normal.

"Excuse me," I called gently to the waiter standing nearby, keeping my tone polite and controlled. "Could you take this dish off the table? I'll pay for it separately."

The waiter hesitated for a second, clearly unsure, but before he could even reach for the plate, Salvatore moved first. He dragged the dish back toward himself with a faint scoff.

"Oh, come on," he said, his voice edged with annoyance. "I miss a few days while you're in the clinic and suddenly you're acting like a drama queen?" He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Maybe if you were actually paying attention to where you were going, you wouldn't have gotten hit by a car in the first place."

The words landed harder than they should have.

Because I knew what it looked like when he cared.

I had seen it before.

There had been a time when I caught a fever in the middle of winter. He had panicked, lifted me onto his back, and carried me all the way to a safe doctor through freezing wind, his hands trembling, his voice breaking as he kept asking if I was still conscious. I still remembered the way he cried that night, like losing me would destroy him. Back then he wasn't the Don yet. Back then his hands still shook for reasons that had nothing to do with violence.

And now?

Now he had been part of the accident that hurt me… and didn't even bother to show up.

He knew I hated bitter melon. For five years, he had never once ordered it, never once brought anything remotely bitter to our table. He used to say even the smell made me frown too much.

And yet now, like we had gone back in time to when we had just met, like none of those years had ever existed, he casually ordered it again without a second thought.

I curled my lips into a faint, tired smile, the kind that didn't quite reach my eyes.

"I really hate bitter melon," I said softly. "I can't even stand the smell."

"Then don't eat it," he replied immediately, his tone sharp and impatient. "Simple."

The irritation in his voice wasn't even hidden. The silver lighter appeared in his hand, turning slow across his knuckles, each rotation catching the candlelight like a small, indifferent blade.

But I kept my expression calm, polite, like I had trained myself to be over the years.

"I think… we should—"

I didn't get to finish.

A woman's voice cut in smoothly from the side.

"Salvatore, after all these years, you still remember I love bitter melon!"

I lifted my gaze.

She stood right beside our table, perfectly put together from head to toe. Flawless makeup. Impeccable styling. Her posture straight, chin slightly lifted as she looked down at me with a faint, unmistakable trace of disdain. One finger rested on the pearl at her throat, light as a breath, as if confirming something only she needed to know.

Without waiting for any invitation, she stepped closer.

With an easy familiarity, she nudged Salvatore slightly inward on the booth, then slipped into the seat right next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The two soldiers sitting at the bar didn't turn, but I could feel the room's attention tighten, the way it always did when the Don's table changed shape.

"Let me introduce myself," she said sweetly, her voice smooth like syrup. "I'm Salvatore's girlfriend. Adriana Caruso."

I didn't respond.

She leaned in even closer to him, her arm grazing his as if it was completely natural, then glanced sideways at me with a subtle, almost playful look.

"Salvatore," she said lightly, "aren't you going to introduce her? She's…"

Salvatore's expression stiffened instantly.

It was clear he hadn't expected this.

His eyes flickered toward me, a brief flash of unease, almost panic, before he forced himself to stay composed. The lighter went still in his hand.

For a second, I almost laughed.

"Elena Vitale," I said before he could speak, my tone calm and even. "I work at Mr. Bellomo's front office. The restaurant was full, so we're just sharing a table."

His head snapped toward me.

That flicker of panic disappeared just as quickly as it came, replaced by visible relief. He let out a breath, then nodded quickly. The lighter resumed its slow rotation.

"Yeah, that's right," he said. "This is Elena. One of my associates."

Adriana smiled slowly.

The kind of smile a cat gives when it already has its prey pinned beneath its paw.

"Ms. Vitale must be very capable, then," she said, tilting her head slightly. "I've never seen Salvatore sit at the same table with any woman besides me."

Her tone was light, but every word carried weight.

Then she placed her phone casually beside her wine glass, nudging it forward just enough to be seen. It looked accidental.

But it wasn't.

I caught a glimpse of the screen.

Her profile picture.

It matched Salvatore's.

A couple photo.

Even their outfits today were coordinated. Same tones, same palette, down to the smallest details like their watches. Everything was deliberate, curated, expensive. The kind of matched presentation that in this world meant more than romance. It meant claim. It meant territory.

Under the warm lighting of the restaurant, they looked perfect.

Like a portrait of a Don and his donna.

I lowered my gaze, set my chopsticks down carefully, and stood up.

I didn't want to stay.

Before I could take a step, Adriana reached out and grabbed my wrist.

Her fingers were slender, her nails long and perfectly manicured.

They dug into my skin just enough to hurt, just enough to leave a mark, but hidden from Salvatore's line of sight.

"Miss Vitale," she said softly, her voice laced with feigned concern, "you're leaving already? Did I say something wrong?"

Her eyes shimmered, almost as if she were genuinely apologetic.

"Let me apologize, okay?"

I didn't have the patience for this.

Didn't have the energy to play along with someone pretending to be all sweetness and innocence.

I pulled my hand back sharply, breaking free from her grip.

Just as I lowered my eyes to check my wrist, I saw it: thin red marks where her nails had dug in, one of them already starting to bead with blood.

Before I could even process it, everything happened in an instant.

Adriana suddenly lifted her own hand and swung it outward.

A loud smack echoed through the restaurant.

A little boy standing nearby was struck across the face.

His cry broke out immediately, sharp and piercing as he clutched his cheek, tears spilling down as he began sobbing uncontrollably. Two fingers hooked into the hem of his sweater, twisting the fabric tight, and he couldn't look up.

The entire room went quiet for a split second. The Sinatra record between tracks. The clink of silverware stopping at three separate tables. A stillness that in any Family-friendly place meant someone important was watching.

Adriana's expression changed just as quickly.

Her face turned pale, her eyes widening in exaggerated shock.

"Oh no!" she gasped, covering her mouth. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to! Sweetheart, are you okay?"

Salvatore was already on his feet.

He rushed over, apologizing repeatedly to the child's parents, his tone urgent and sincere. Without hesitation, he pulled out his phone and transferred money, trying to smooth things over as quickly as possible. The Don handling civilians. Keeping the peace in a public venue where the Family name floated above every transaction like cigar smoke.

But then the little boy suddenly pointed straight at me.

"It was her!" he cried between sobs. "She grabbed that lady's hand and made her hit me! She should say sorry!"

Every gaze in the restaurant shifted.

All at once.

Adriana turned to me slowly, her eyes filling with hurt, her expression trembling just enough to look real. Her fingers drifted to the pearl at her throat again, holding it like a woman afraid of being struck next.

"Miss Vitale…" she said softly, her voice fragile, "I don't know what I did to upset you."

She lowered her gaze slightly, like she was holding back tears.

"If you have a problem with me, please… just take it out on me. Don't drag innocent people into this…"

Whispers began to spread.

Low voices. Judging. Speculating.

I could feel it.

The weight of every stare pressing against my back. In a place like this, where half the room owed something to the Bellomo name, public opinion wasn't just opinion. It was verdict.

Salvatore turned toward me, his expression darkening instantly.

"What are you standing there for?" he snapped, his voice sharp and cold. "Apologize. Now."

His tone left no room for argument.

"Stop making a scene."

Like I was the problem.

Like I was the one who had embarrassed him.

Like I was the one who didn't belong.