The Wife He Waited Ten Years For

Right before I lost consciousness, I had seen everything clearly. The car. Salvatore in the passenger seat. And the girl he had just kissed. She was the one behind the wheel. He hadn't given me a chance to question him. Not even a single second. He had simply brushed it off, thrown out an excuse about the Family being too busy, and left as if I had imagined the entire thing. At the time, I thought he was avoiding me because he didn't know how to face me after hitting me with the car. But the truth was even more pathetic than that. I didn't matter enough to him. Not even enough for him to feel guilty. Still a little dizzy, I forced a polite smile onto my face, as if everything was perfectly normal. "Guess I was still a bit foggy when I woke up," I said lightly. "Didn't recognize you, boss." The word slipped out naturally, but it carried none of the warmth it used to. He barely reacted. The lighter kept moving over his knuckles, steady as a heartbeat. And I kept going along with it, as if this distance between us had always existed. As if there had never been anything more. He finally looked at me again, his brows drawing together slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes. The girl who used to cling to him over the smallest things, who would demand hugs and kisses over something as trivial as a paper cut, was gone. In her place was someone quiet. Still. Unreachable. Salvatore glanced around the room, making sure no one else was there. Even in a clinic that answered only to his Family, old habits held. Only then did his expression soften a fraction, his voice dropping lower. "Elena," he said, almost gently, "these places are full of people. And whispers travel." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "We can't risk anyone seeing us like this." Like this. What we were had to stay hidden. Even now. Omertà didn't just govern secrets about blood and money. It governed me. "Just rest," he continued. "Focus on recovering. Once you're home, I'll make it up to you." I looked at him, then gave a small, composed smile. "Thank you… boss." I used to call him that as a joke, a teasing nickname when we were alone. Back then, it had been playful, intimate, filled with something unspoken between us. Now, it felt completely different. Cold. Distant. Like a wall had been built between us, brick by brick, until there was nothing left to cross. He frowned slightly. He noticed it. Of course he did. Just as he was about to say something else, the door opened again and the doctor walked in for a routine check. In an instant, Salvatore changed. The softness disappeared as if it had never existed. His posture straightened, his expression cooled, and the distance returned. He was once again the Don, untouchable and controlled. The silver lighter went still in his hand for one beat, then slipped into his jacket pocket. After exchanging a few brief words with the doctor, he turned to leave. At the door, he paused. Then he looked back at me one last time. "Get some rest," he said. There was a slight pause before he added, his tone firm, almost like a warning. "And don't think your… special arrangement gives you any privileges inside my Family." His eyes held mine, steady and unreadable. "Everyone is treated equally. Everything follows the code." With that, he walked out, the door closing softly behind him, leaving the room colder than before. The doctor glanced at the smile I was forcing onto my face and let out a light, teasing chuckle, like he could see straight through it. "Your boss already left," he said casually. "No need to push yourself to keep smiling like that anymore." I didn't respond. "But I'll give him this," he added with a grin, flipping through my chart. "Stubborn mouth, soft heart. He already took care of all your medical bills." My smile didn't disappear, but it shifted—subtly, almost imperceptibly—into something bitter. Salvatore really did deserve an award for his performance. To everyone else, he was just a responsible boss at the front office, someone who took care of his people out of basic decency. A man with principles. No one knew the truth. No one knew that behind the locked door of his private study at the compound, I had been in a relationship with him for five years. Five entire years of secrecy, of compromise, of waiting. No one except a handful of his closest men. His inner circle. The ones bound by the same silence that bound me. I had asked him more times than I could count, always carefully, always hoping for a different answer. "When can we stop hiding?" Every single time, he brushed it off with the same vague excuse. "The timing's not right." I used to believe him. I used to tell myself that there was a reason, that the Family's politics demanded patience, that one day things would be different. But today, I finally understood. When he thought I had lost my memory, the first thing he did was draw a line between us. I'm your boss. That was the truth. That was all I had ever been to him.

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.

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.

[Elena, please stop being so sensitive and antagonizing Adriana. You two are going to be seeing a lot of each other. I hope you'll get along from now on.] I let out a quiet breath. So that was it. That was his solution. A box of burn cream in exchange for silence. For obedience. For pretending nothing had happened. For accepting that he would keep both of us in his life, as if we were things he could arrange however he pleased. I didn't reply. I applied the ointment silently, the coolness stinging slightly against the burned skin, then lay down in bed. Through the wall I could hear the faint tick of the security panel cycling through its nightly check. The apartment was built for the Don's convenience, wired for his safety. Not for mine. He didn't come home that night. The next morning, the moment I stepped into the front office of the Bellomo club, I could feel it. The change. Eyes followed me everywhere I went. Conversations cut off the second I got close, only to resume in hushed whispers the moment I passed. The hostesses. The floor runners. Even the bartender who usually nodded good morning wouldn't look at me. It felt like walking into a hive that had been violently shaken. As I sat down at my desk, Gianna leaned over almost immediately, the corner of her order pad curling between her fingers as she twisted it tight. "Elena… people are saying you tried to get with the Boss," she whispered. "And his woman caught you in the act. It's all over the group chats." She slid her phone toward me. A video was playing. The restaurant scene from last night. Someone had recorded everything. At some point during the chaos, a new group chat had been created just to spread it. Message after message scrolled past—speculation, accusations, mockery. Whispers on the floor made permanent with screenshots. They painted me as someone who tried to sleep her way into the Family's good graces and got exposed. I stared at the screen, my expression calm, even as something inside me went completely still. Before I could process it further, the front doors opened. Salvatore walked in. With Adriana right beside him. The silver lighter was moving across his knuckles in that slow, idle rhythm, catching the overhead light once, twice. "Everyone," he said, his voice clear and authoritative, "let me introduce our new front-operation overseer. Adriana." So that was what he meant. When he said we would be seeing a lot of each other. He hadn't been exaggerating. He had brought her directly into the Family's front operation. As my superior. The room fell silent. Every pair of eyes turned toward me. For the past few weeks, ever since the previous overseer severed ties and disappeared upstate, I had been the one handling most of the responsibilities. Everyone assumed I would move up in the ranks. It seemed obvious. Until now. Salvatore added Adriana to the internal chat right there in front of everyone. Almost immediately, both of them sent messages. Their profile pictures appeared side by side. Matching. A couple photo. Smiling. Perfect. The implication couldn't have been clearer. The rest of the morning passed in a haze of whispers and distracted glances. No one was really working. Everyone was watching. Talking. Judging. But I didn't care anymore. I was leaving. Before lunch, I drafted my letter severing ties and sent it through the proper channels. With nothing left tying me here, I stood up and walked to the back room. I needed something warm. Something simple. I made myself a cup of honey grapefruit tea, watching the steam rise slowly, the scent soft and calming. Sweet. Light. Nothing like the bitterness I had just left behind. I had barely taken two sips when the door opened again. Adriana walked in like she owned the place. Confident. Unhurried. She made herself a coffee, then walked over and sat down right beside me, crossing her legs elegantly as if she were settling into a throne that had always been hers. Her presence filled the room. Her voice, when she spoke, was smooth and sweet, but underneath it, there was something sharp. "Elena," she said, her lips curving slightly, "I know you've been Salvatore's little secret for five years." She tilted her head, studying me. "But I'm his public donna now." There was a pause. "I'm back," she continued softly, "and it's time for the mistress to know when to leave." Her smile didn't waver. "As long as you keep your mouth shut like you always have," she added lightly, "I won't make things harder for you." The threat was gentle. Polite. But unmistakable. As she spoke, Adriana casually unlocked her phone and tapped on a voice message, holding it just close enough for me to hear. The recording played. It was the little boy from yesterday. His voice was bright, sweet in that practiced, childish way, but there was something smug underneath it, something that didn't belong to innocence at all. "Auntie Adriana, wasn't I awesome? Don't forget the Transformers toy you promised me!" The message ended with a soft click. And just like that, everything fell into place. Every detail. Every movement. Every perfectly timed reaction from last night. It hadn't been an accident. None of it had.

My instincts screamed at me to leave. To get out of there immediately before things escalated further. But before I could even take a step back, Adriana moved. Fast. She snatched the cup of tea straight out of my hands. Before I could react, she tilted it and poured it over her own head. The liquid splashed down her hair, soaking through the strands and dripping over her face, her neck, her blouse. It wasn't hot anymore, the tea long gone cold, but that didn't matter. The effect was exactly what she wanted. Then, without hesitation, she slammed the ceramic cup onto the ground. Right at my feet. It shattered instantly. The sharp crack echoed through the room as fragments of porcelain exploded outward. Several pieces skidded across the floor, a few slicing lightly into my ankles. A sharp sting followed, but I barely registered it. Adriana stood there, drenched, her hair clinging to her face in messy strands, her blouse soaked and sticking to her skin. She looked utterly disheveled. Pitiful. Humiliated. Perfect. This woman wasn't just ruthless. She was terrifying. Before I could move past her, she stepped forward, blocking my path completely. And then she screamed. "Elena! What are you doing?! Why would you hurt me like this?!" Her voice was high, shrill, and filled with raw, trembling emotion. It carried. Through the front office, past the half-open doors where Bellomo associates nursed their morning espressos, into the back rooms where soldiers and runners kept their heads down and their ears open. Within seconds, the social club began to stir. Doors opened. Chairs scraped. People rushed in from every direction, drawn by the commotion. But Adriana wasn't done. Not even close. She picked up her coffee, her hand trembling just enough to make it look real, and splashed it across her own chest. The dark liquid spread quickly across the fabric, staining it unevenly. Then, just like the night before, she lifted her hand to her neck and began scratching. Hard. Red marks bloomed instantly across her skin, raw and irritated, as if someone had grabbed her violently. I stood there, watching. Something inside me finally snapped. Enough. Before I could think it through, before I could stop myself, I stepped forward and slapped her. Hard. The sound rang out, sharp and clear. Everything went silent. The kind of silence that only falls in a place run by men who understand violence. The kind where nobody breathes until they know whose side to take. And that was the exact moment Salvatore walked in. He saw everything. Or at least, what it looked like. Me, standing there, upright, composed. And Adriana, soaked, disheveled, trembling, like a fragile creature that had just been attacked. There wasn't even a second of hesitation. His hand came down across my face. The force sent my head jerking to the side, a sharp sting blooming across my cheek. "Elena!" he snapped, his voice cold with anger. "If you don't want to be here anymore, then get the hell out." He didn't wait for a response. Still visibly furious, he shoved me aside, his shoulder hitting mine hard enough to make me lose my balance. Then, without another glance in my direction, he bent down, scooped Adriana up into his arms. A perfect bridal carry. Like a man rescuing someone who needed saving. And carried her straight into his office. The heavy door slammed shut behind them, and the silver lighter he'd left on the edge of his desk didn't so much as rattle. It just sat there, still. I staggered back from the force of his shove, my body colliding with the edge of a nearby desk. Pain shot up my spine instantly, sharp and blinding. My vision blurred for a second as tears welled up in my eyes. But I didn't cry. I just stood there. The front-operation overseer, who had been hesitating over my severance papers just minutes ago, now stepped forward without a word. His expression had changed completely. He picked up the document. Signed it. Stamped it. Approved. No questions asked. No delay. Salvatore didn't even come out. He didn't look at the form. Didn't ask anything. Someone brought it into his office, and while he was busy comforting Adriana, he scribbled his signature across the page without even glancing at it. Then tossed it aside like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing. The finance people moved quickly after that. Too quickly. Always eager to stay on the good side of whoever held power in the Family's front operation, they rushed to process my final pay, efficiency driven not by professionalism but by their desire to please the Don's favorite. I still had work to finish. A stack of client materials from the hotel accounts that needed to be handed over properly. So I sat down, sorted everything, organized the files carefully, and prepared to send them to Salvatore. But the moment I tried to log into my account, access denied. I tried again. Nothing. My account had already been deleted. Completely wiped. There was only one person who had the authority to do that. Salvatore. I paused for a second, staring at the screen. Then I pulled out my phone. I sent him a message. No response. I called. The call didn't even go through. Blocked. Messenger. Blocked. Everything. Every possible way of reaching him, gone. I stood there for a moment, completely still. Stunned. But only for a moment. Then I exhaled slowly. I smoothed the edge of my skirt until the crease was sharper than anything I could bring myself to say. Picked up my bag. Packed the last of my things. Cleared every trace of myself from what I could still access in the system. And walked out. No hesitation. No looking back. Past the associates who wouldn't meet my eyes. Past the corridor where a soldier held the door open for me with the careful neutrality of a man who had already chosen whose name to forget. Past the front entrance of the Bellomo social club, where the awning cast its shadow over the sidewalk like a territory line. I didn't go home. I went straight to the airport.