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.

Backed by the murmured encouragement of the adults around him, the little boy broke free from his parents' hold and rushed toward me. Before I could react, he grabbed my hand and sank his teeth into it. Hard. The pain shot through me instantly, sharp and raw, and he didn't let go.

"Hey—" someone gasped, but no one stepped in.

The more gently Adriana crouched beside him, coaxing him in a soft, soothing voice, the deeper his teeth seemed to press into my skin, as if her words only fueled his stubbornness. Her tone was all concern, all patience, the picture of kindness.

"Sweetheart, let go… okay? You're scaring me," she murmured, reaching out but never quite pulling him away.

I stood there, frozen.

I couldn't exactly push a child off me. Couldn't raise my voice. Couldn't defend myself without looking like the villain they already believed I was.

So I swallowed everything.

Swallowed the pain. Swallowed the humiliation.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly, forcing the words out as evenly as I could. "I'm sorry, okay?"

The boy finally loosened his grip, stepping back, still sniffling. My hand throbbed where his teeth had broken the skin, a dull, pulsing ache that quickly turned wet.

But Salvatore wasn't satisfied.

He didn't notice the blood slowly seeping from the bite mark. Didn't notice the way my fingers trembled slightly from the pain. Didn't even glance at me properly.

All he cared about was salvaging someone else's dignity.

He reached out and grabbed my arm just as I turned to leave.

"Elena," he said sharply, his grip tightening. "Apologize. To Adriana."

Adriana immediately put on that same gentle, self-effacing expression, tugging lightly at his sleeve as if trying to stop him. One finger drifted to the pearl at her throat and touched it, barely, the way someone checks a pin before walking into a room full of cameras.

"Salvatore, it's fine," she said softly. "Really, it's not a big deal. I'm okay." She paused, lowering her gaze with perfect timing. "It's just the little boy… he got hurt, and he's probably scared."

Her words were modest.

Her tone was forgiving.

And yet, they only made everything worse.

Salvatore's attention shifted instantly.

His eyes dropped to the back of her hand, where a faint red mark had formed—barely noticeable, nothing compared to the blood on mine.

But to him, it was everything.

Something in his expression softened, almost pained.

Then, just as quickly, it hardened again as he turned back to me.

Before I could react, he grabbed my injured hand and shoved it straight into the bowl of hot soup that had just been set on the table.

The heat hit me instantly.

The soup wasn't boiling, but it was scalding enough. At least sixty degrees, maybe more. The broth soaked into the fresh bite wound, salt and heat combining into a sharp, searing pain that shot up my arm like an electric current.

My entire body jerked.

A gasp tore out of me before I could stop it.

The pain was unbearable.

It spread, burned, throbbed, every nerve screaming at once. My fingers curled involuntarily, trembling as I tried to pull back, but his grip held me in place for a second longer. A Don's grip. The kind that didn't negotiate.

"Elena, what is wrong with you?" Salvatore hissed, his voice low but cutting. "You need to be taught a lesson."

My vision blurred slightly from the pain.

Still, I looked up at him.

"Is that who I am to you?" I asked quietly, my teeth clenched so tightly they ached.

I already knew the answer.

But I still asked.

Maybe some part of me hadn't fully given up yet.

Around us, the whispers grew louder. The other diners at the Family-friendly trattoria weren't even pretending to look away anymore.

"Wait… so which one is his actual woman?"

"Are you blind? Obviously the one he's protecting."

"Yeah, look at them. Matching everything, couple photos on their phones… it's obvious."

Their voices weren't even hushed anymore.

Their gazes shifted toward me, heavy with something worse than judgment.

Pity.

"Hey, man, enough is enough," someone at a nearby table muttered. "Another few seconds and you're going to boil her hand off."

Only then did Salvatore hesitate.

I stood there, my lips pale, my body still trembling slightly from the pain, and yet, somehow, I was smiling.

A faint, fragile smile.

I looked straight at him.

And for the first time, something flickered in his eyes.

Unease.

Just for a moment.

Then he let go.

He released my hand as if nothing had happened, reached for Adriana instead, and took her by the arm.

"Let's go," he said quietly.

And just like that, he walked away with her.

Didn't look back.

Didn't say another word.

When I got home, the apartment felt colder than usual. The hallway was dark, the deadbolt still set from the inside the way he always left it, as though security mattered more than the person locked within.

A notification popped up on my phone.

He had ordered a box of burn ointment for me through a delivery service.

I stared at it for a long moment before opening the message that came with it.