Fading Snow, Long Island

The truth is, I didn’t become Enzo’s mistress just because of Marco.

There was also a kind of atonement.

For my mother’s sins. And for my own.

My sin: one spring in high school, I made the mistake of falling for him.

It was April. The plane trees in Manhattan were just budding.

We all wore the same dark blue blazers and khakis.

But Enzo Vitale in a crowd? Always the best‑looking.

Dark curly hair. Blue eyes like the Mediterranean. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes tilted up like they were holding starlight.

He was the heir to the Vitale crime family. I was just a dean’s daughter. I should have kept my distance.

But every time I saw him, those green shoots I’d tried to suppress grew wilder.

One PE class, free period. Enzo was playing basketball in the gym. I sat in the bleachers pretending to read a book, but I was watching him from the corner of my eye.

My palms were sweaty. I felt like I was sitting on a cloud.

Suddenly a cheer erupted from the court.

His team had just hit a three‑pointer.

I sat up straighter and glanced down—and my eyes met his.

For those few seconds, time stopped for me.

Then—thwack—a basketball hit the back of his head.

He winced, clutching his head. His handsome face scrunched up like an angry cat.

And he had no idea. He looked around nervously, hoping no one had seen.

Then he looked up at me in the bleachers and fake‑threatened: “Hey. You didn’t see anything, right?”

“Huh?” I hugged my book, dazed.

He grinned. His blue eyes curved into crescents, as if they’d gathered all the spring light in the world.

He lowered his voice and mimicked Men in Black:

“Forget what you just saw. One, two, three—bingo!”

He pointed his fingers like a memory‑eraser and pretended to shoot me.

Right in the heart.

I started a diary. I wrote down everything about Enzo Vitale.

His eyes. His laugh. His long fingers when he shot a basket. The way his collar sat open when he wore dark blue.

But my mother found my diary.

She screamed at me. Slapped me. Made me kneel for half the night.

After that, she began watching Enzo like a hawk.

In her eyes, he was a dangerous boy who would ruin my future.

So when the rumor spread that Enzo and Valentina were bullies, my mother struck without hesitation.

She came down on them hard.

She wanted to make an example. For me.

I knew she was warning me: study hard, or you’ll end up like them.

Valentina was bullied by my mother herself and eventually transferred schools.

Enzo became dark and silent.

His grades were brilliant. He could have gone to an Ivy. Instead, he gave up studying in the U.S. and went straight to LSE in London.

I vaguely knew his family was rich.

But I never imagined how rich.

The Morettis were just ordinary people from Brooklyn.

The Vitales? One of the most powerful Mafia families in New York.

Enzo’s father, Domenico Vitale, controlled port businesses up and down the East Coast.

My first job after graduation was at a publishing group—one that the Vitale family had invested in.

Then one day, he came to check on a new acquisition.

He was wearing a dark gray Zegna suit. Platinum and diamond cufflinks.

The boss and all the senior execs trailed behind him like planets around a sun.

He passed my desk and stopped.

“Lucia Moretti?”

I was so happy to see him again.

I looked up and smiled.

His next sentence dropped me into an abyss.

“Is your mother dead yet?”