No Longer Your Perfect Tool

The chime of a video call shattered the night's silence.

I pushed myself up from the floor, my knees leaving two damp spots on the expensive Persian silk. Tears or sweat, I could no longer tell.

"Vivian, you look like hell." Mia's face appeared on the screen, her expression a mix of pity and fury.

"I'm fine." The lie slipped out, a habit I was never good at.

"Don't lie to me, honey," Mia said, her voice softening. "But you need to see this."

She held up her iPad. A Page Six exclusive. The headline was a gut punch.

"New York's New Mob King, Enzo Moretti, Dances with Falcone Heiress Stella, Hinting at a Union of Two Crime Empires."

My chest tightened.

The first dance of the coronation.

Last night, tangled in the sheets, he'd sworn I was his only partner. Now, another woman was on his arm, wearing the crystal shoes that were meant for me.

He hadn't even told me the ceremony had begun.

In the photo, Enzo wore the black suit I had picked out for him. An eight-thousand-dollar custom job. I remembered the placement of every button.

His hand was wrapped around Stella's slender waist, his fingertips sinking into her pale skin. They were pressed close in a heated dance, her blood-red gown a slash of color against his black suit.

She was tilting her head back, a triumphant smirk on her lips.

"Keep scrolling," Mia's voice was gentle, but it landed like a sledgehammer.

My fingers trembled as I swiped, my eyes drinking in every torturous detail.

Enzo's hand cupped the back of Stella's neck, pulling her impossibly close. Her leg was practically wrapped around his.

I stared at the screen. His palm was on the nape of her neck, the same spot he had kissed on me just last night.

So this was how Enzo conquered women. Passion, violence, an undisguised sexual charge.

"Vivian, I just wanted you to see it for what it is. You see it now, don't you?" Mia's voice was an icicle piercing my chest.

It had been less than twenty-four hours since he'd left my bed, murmuring "You're my only one" in my ear.

I closed my eyes, my stomach churning. I tilted my head back, refusing to let another tear fall. "Thank you, Mia. Thanks for showing me."

My own voice sounded terrifyingly calm, as if it belonged to someone else.

"Are you okay, honey? Do you want me to come over?"

"I'm fine," I said, forcing each word through clenched teeth. "Besides, this isn't exactly a surprise, is it?"

The moment I hung up, my fingers were typing a password only I knew. The Moretti family's secret accounts materialized on the screen. Every dollar I had laundered for this family over ten years, every return on investment, every legitimized project.

The number that materialized on the screen was staggering.

My fingers trembled over the keyboard.

I thought I had chased a fairytale for ten years, but in the end, these cold, flickering numbers were the only thing I had left to hold onto.

The transaction began.

I checked the time. 48 hours until my flight.

Just enough time.

Enzo Moretti, this is my final gift to you.

I stood up and staggered to the bathroom. The woman in the mirror was pale, her skin a map of his possession in angry purple bruises—all of them from Enzo.

The hot water was like lava, scalding my skin. I grabbed the loofah and scrubbed at every inch of myself. Arms, shoulders, neck, chest.

I had to scrub away every trace of him: the dig of his nails, the brand of his lips, the salty taste of his sweat, the echo of his low gasps.

All of it. Gone.

The rough fibers tore at my skin. Beads of blood mixed with the soap suds, swirling down the drain. The pain was grounding.

A brutal reminder that I could still feel something other than my shattered heart.

My phone lay silent on the marble countertop. For the first time in seven years, there was no goodnight text from Enzo. Now even that ritual was gone.

I turned off the faucet. The only sound was water dripping against tile. Bloody water pooled at my feet in a pale pink stream, slowly draining away.

Like the last bit of warmth in my heart, seeping out drop by drop.