When a Hostage Claims Her Due

Eight years after my breakup with Lorenzo Cassano, we met again in a private tattoo studio in Chicago. He was with his wife, Bianca Marchetti, accompanying her for a scar cover-up consultation.

I wore a mask and goggles, sketching a design for her, while she proudly flaunted her conquest to her friends.

"A man like him is a prize you have to fight for," Bianca said. "To get him, I turned him against his childhood sweetheart, forged evidence of her colluding with our enemies, and drove them apart until they hated each other. That woman was even pregnant at the time, so I… hinted to my men to teach her a 'lesson' when they exiled her!"

After they left, I took off my mask, my hand drifting to my lower abdomen. Beneath my clothes lay an ugly scar.

A few days later, Lorenzo found the ring that symbolized our love, the one Bianca had hidden away. He came with a signed divorce agreement and knelt before me.

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1

I never thought I would see Lorenzo again, let alone under circumstances like these.

He was escorting his wife, Bianca, to my studio for a scar cover-up consultation. With their striking looks and the possessive way he hovered over her, my staff were buzzing, certain they were witnessing a match made in mafia heaven.

During the design consultation, one of Bianca's friends couldn't resist asking, "How did you two get together?"

Bianca arched an eyebrow, a smug smile playing on her lips. "Let's just say it took some maneuvering. He had a childhood sweetheart—a political hostage from a rival family. They were nauseatingly in love, the kind who would die for each other. But when I set my sights on a man, he becomes mine."

"That woman was a fool. I pretended to bond with her over art, worming my way into her confidence while gathering 'evidence' of her betrayal. She's probably rotting in a ditch somewhere by now."

Her tone was breezy, as if sharing an amusing anecdote. "At one point, my husband even tried to reconcile with her, but I put a stop to that with some forged letters. Those letters are still locked away in my safe. They're my trophies."

The air in the room grew thick with a sudden, awkward tension. Sensing the shift, Bianca laughed it off. "Why so serious, everyone? I was just kidding. The real world isn't some dramatic novel full of conspiracies and plots."

Everyone exchanged uneasy glances, then let out a collective, relieved sigh at her explanation.

I kept my expression professionally blank, but the hand holding my stylus trembled almost imperceptibly.

The consultation ended, and it was time for me to clock out. As I was changing, I overheard my assistants gushing.

"Those two are a perfect match. He's so intense and striking, and she's gorgeous. Absolutely perfect!"

"Yeah, the future Madre of the Cassano family? Why would she need to steal a man? She had to be joking."

I took off my mask, my hand instinctively resting on my lower abdomen. Beneath my clothes lay a hideous scar—a wound that would never truly heal. I stared blankly at my design table. I was the only one who knew Bianca hadn't been joking at all.

But I had spent eight years building a new life in Chicago, walling off the past. It didn't matter if it was all a misunderstanding.

The next second, Lorenzo was back, having forgotten a pair of cufflinks. He saw me without my mask, and shock, recognition, and something unreadable warred on his face. "Flora Petrova. Long time no see."

He looked the same, but the old softness in his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, hard edge.

"How have you been?"

After a long silence, I heard my own voice, brittle and dry. "Better than ever."

He flinched as if I'd slapped him, hurt flashing in his eyes.

My history with Lorenzo was complicated. I was the youngest daughter of the Rossi family, which made me a bargaining chip. At twelve, I was sent to the rival Cassano family as part of a truce—their nominal adopted daughter, but in reality, a hostage. For years, a fragile peace held. Lorenzo, the heir, was suffocatingly protective, a feeling that warped into a twisted possessiveness. Once we came of age, it was inevitable we became secret lovers.

"Flora? It really is you. I thought the name was just a coincidence." Bianca's voice sliced through my thoughts. She raked her eyes over me, dripping with disdain. "Weren't you exiled? How does a family outcast become a tattoo artist? Still using your body to make a living, I see."

My voice was sharp. "My resume is on the studio's official website. You can look it up yourself."

She sneered. "Ah, so you're playing the mysterious artist now? You're resourceful, I'll give you that."

My assistants shifted uncomfortably. I grabbed my bag from the table, my face a cold mask. "During your consultation, you were telling the truth, weren't you?"

The color drained from Bianca's face.