The Don’s Favorite Lover Vanished

“Vincenzo!” Katerina cried, a flash of vicious triumph in her terrified eyes. “She tried to kill me! She betrayed the family! By the rules, you have to execute her yourself!”

Execute me.

I looked into Vincenzo’s eyes, waiting for his sentence.

His finger tightened on the trigger. His dark eyes were a storm of emotions I couldn’t read. Rage, conflict… and a flicker of exhaustion.

Time stood still.

Then, slowly, he spoke. Each word deliberate.

“Marco.”

Marco stepped out from behind him. “Yes, Boss.”

“Get her,” Vincenzo’s gun was still on me, but his words were for Marco, “and throw her off the estate.”

Katerina’s sobs stopped. She looked at Vincenzo in disbelief.

“Vincenzo, you…”

Vincenzo ignored her. His eyes were still locked on me.

“Cut her off. Freeze her accounts. Strike her from the family records.” The orders came out like machine-gun fire, every one a cold blade. “I don’t want to see this face in Chicago ever again.”

He paused, then delivered the final sentence.

“Tell everyone, from this night on, Chiara Rossi is a traitor to the Russo family. Anyone who helps her is an enemy of mine.”

He made me a traitor. Left me with nothing, with no one.

Then he threw me out of his world like a piece of trash.

It was worse than a bullet. It killed my heart.

My hand went limp. The knife fell from my fingers.

Katerina was still glaring at me with pure hate.

I didn’t care anymore.

Marco came forward and grabbed my arm without ceremony.

Two guards disarmed me. They dragged me through the manicured lawns, past the fountains, and out the main gates like a bag of trash.

They threw me onto the cold asphalt, and I heard the gates begin to close behind me, sealing off two worlds.

I laughed. Then I started coughing up blood.

A black Mercedes pulled up silently beside me.

The door opened. It was one of my father’s men.

“Miss. Get in.”

On the back seat was a briefcase. Inside was a new set of identity papers.

The photo was me. The name was Bella Fiore.

Occupation: Art Dealer.

Place of Birth: Florence, Italy.

“And this,” the driver said, handing me a new phone.

I took it. Then I took out my old phone.

The screen lit up. The first name on my contact list was Vincenzo.

Next to it was a small red heart I had put there myself.

I looked at the name. My finger slid down the screen.

Marco, Tony, Dr. Castellano… every name was a piece of my past, written in blood and fire.

My face was a blank mask. I started deleting.

One by one.

Photos.

Messages.

Call logs.

Gone.

Finally, only Vincenzo’s name was left. I held my finger on it. A confirmation box popped up.

My finger paused over the “Delete” button for a second.

Then I pressed it.

O’Hare International Airport, VIP lounge.

My father sat across from me. He handed me a coffee.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” I said.

I took out the black diamond phoenix necklace, the one that had fallen into the blood at the party. It had once been my most treasured possession.

I looked at it. At the broken, blood-stained bird.

Then I stood up, walked to the trash can in the lounge, and opened my hand.

It landed with a soft, dull thud.

Like my ten dead years.

The boarding announcement came over the speakers.

“Now boarding, flight to Florence.”

I stood and grabbed my carry-on.

I pulled the SIM card from my old phone. Between my thumb and forefinger, I snapped the small piece of plastic in two.

The pieces joined the necklace in the trash.

I slid on my sunglasses, turning my face toward the gate.

“I’m ready, Papa.”

I took my father’s arm and walked toward the gate.

Behind me, the lights of Chicago burned bright. A city of ghosts. It had nothing to do with me anymore.

Chiara Rossi was dead. And I was walking away from her grave.