I left with a single, small suitcase.

An early winter storm had hit New York, blanketing the city in snow.

The steps outside the building were slick with ice.

I hadn't gone more than a few feet before my feet slipped out from under me. I crashed hard onto the pavement.

The suitcase burst open, my sheet music scattering everywhere.

But I couldn’t focus on that.

A sudden, violent cramp ripped through my lower stomach.

The pain was so sharp it buckled me over, my vision tunneling to black.

My hand flew to my belly on pure instinct. A primal terror I’d never known seized me.

And that tearing pain… it threw me back to another winter.

Five years ago. A snowstorm just like this one.

My mother, right in front of me, jumping from the seventh-floor rooftop.

The dull thud as her body hit the ground.

The red blood spreading quickly, staining the dirty snow. Just like this.

"Mom..." I knelt in the snow, staring at the blood.

When Rocco saved me in that filthy alley, when he gave me a home in that warm apartment, I really thought I’d found a family.

Those nights he took me to charity galas.

The way he’d shield me from pushy guests, whispering in my ear, "You're the most beautiful woman here tonight." I'd had such foolish fantasies.

I thought maybe, just maybe, I could have that simple, impossible happiness.

Looking back now, it was all just a game to him. The way a man indulges a pet.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was Chloe.

"Clara, I just stopped by the custom jeweler. Those handmade cufflinks you ordered for Rocco's birthday are ready. The ones with his initials… Should I still have them sent over?"

I covered the mouthpiece with my bloody hand. My voice trembled in the wind.

"No, Chloe. Don't."

"What? But..."

"I changed my flight. I'm leaving the day the contract ends."

I glanced back at the towering skyscraper, at the single lit window of the penthouse.

"He doesn't need a surprise. He doesn't need me."

I moved into the old apartment on the city's edge.

It was bare. A moldy old sofa, a simple table and chairs.

It was perfect.

The cold, the distance… it was a constant reminder of what Rocco and I really were.

I thought I’d stay here until it was time to leave.

On the third evening, my private ringtone went off.

It was Rocco. He wanted me back at the penthouse.

No explanation. Just a command.

When I pushed open the door, I thought I was in the wrong apartment.

Everything was different.

The custom-made bed where we’d spent countless nights was gone, replaced by an ornate, over-the-top Baroque monstrosity.

The simple gray sofa I loved was gone, too. In its place was a velvet couch that looked expensive and deeply uncomfortable.

The impressionist paintings I’d picked out were gone from the walls.

The whole room felt suffocating, dripping with a gaudy luxury.

It was Vivienne's taste.

My heart seized.

"My things?" I grabbed the arm of a cleaning lady, my voice sharp. "Where are my things?"

"Oh, the old furniture and clutter?" The woman pointed towards the door. "Mr. Moretti said to clear it all out. It was all sent to the incinerator in the basement."

"What?!"

I ran for the elevator like a madwoman.

The furniture didn't matter. The clothes didn't matter.

But inside the nightstand, in a small tin box, was the caricature a street artist drew of us on our first trip to Coney Island.

It was the only time he’d ever smiled at me like a normal boy.

And the photo of us kissing at the top of the Ferris wheel.

I’d said to him that day, "They say lovers who kiss at the very top will stay together forever."

He had just smiled and kissed me.

It was the only proof of "love" I had saved over five years.

I sprinted to the incinerator in the basement.

The massive furnace was roaring, the fire lighting up the dark room.

In a pile of trash waiting to be shoved inside, I saw it. The crushed tin box.

I scrambled over, digging through the filthy garbage.

"Miss! That's trash! It's dirty!" a worker shouted.

I ignored him, my hands trembling as I pried the box open.

Inside, there was only black ash. But I could still make out a burnt corner of the photo. The ghostly outline of the Ferris wheel.

The sketch was almost gone. Just a blur of Rocco's face, the edges being eaten by the last glowing embers.

The moment my fingertip touched the ash, it disintegrated.

Along with the last, pathetic piece of my heart.

I knelt there, beside the pile of garbage, and the tears finally came.

"What the hell are you doing?"

A familiar, cold voice came from behind me.

I went rigid.

Rocco was standing at the entrance to the incinerator room, a cigarette between his fingers, frowning at the pathetic sight I made.

"My girl has a taste for garbage now?"

I kept my back to him and wiped my tears away.

I took a deep breath, then rubbed my ash-covered hands hard on my clothes.

"Nothing, Boss."

I turned, the perfect, unbreakable smile already back on my face.

I walked to him and stood on my toes, pressing my lips to his.

"I heard your call and came right away. Just wanted to see if I'd left anything behind."

Rocco looked down at me, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes, but he didn't push it.

He just reached out and patted my head, like he was rewarding an obedient pet.

"Don't decorate on your own again," he said, his voice flat around the cigarette. "Vivienne doesn't like... your cheap taste."

I looked at his face, blurred by the smoke, and the hole in my chest finally stopped bleeding.

"Okay," I nodded obediently.

"Whatever makes you happy."

Anyway, I added silently, there won't be a trace of Clara Vance here soon enough.

I thought Rocco called me back for the usual reason. To be cleaned up, thrown on a bed, and used like an animal to satisfy him.

But he didn't.

He didn't even stay the night.

He sat on that uncomfortable velvet sofa, silently ate a steak I wasn't very good at cooking, and then looked at his watch.

"I have to go."

He stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and became the cold-blooded Don again.

"I'll be busy for a while. Don't wait up."

Then, without a backward glance, he was gone.

Ten minutes later, his second-in-command knocked on the door.

"Miss Vance."

He respectfully handed me a velvet case and a black Amex card.

"From the Boss."

Inside the case was an antique violin. A Guarneri del Gesù, 1742. If I wasn't mistaken, it was the one that sold for a fortune at Christie's two years ago.

And the black card had no limit.

"Compensation," the man said simply.

I stared at the violin, an instrument that could buy an entire orchestra, and felt nothing but a vast emptiness.

Rocco Moretti never apologized.

This was his way.

He used money to fix the problem of a cheap, broken violin string. He used a priceless masterpiece to shut my mouth, to buy my silence for the desecration of my mother's memory.

"Where did he go?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

The man hesitated. "Miss Vivienne is organizing an art exhibit and a personal concert in memory of her late husband. The Boss... is helping her."

"Helping."

I let out a small, bitter laugh.

What a nice word for it.

The Don of the Moretti family, a killer with blood on his hands, acting like a devoted husband, helping a woman plan an art show.

Two days later, on the opening day of Vivienne’s exhibition, I went anyway.

I bought a ticket, a sick part of me wanting to see the humiliation up close.

Maybe it would be the last time I ever saw him.

The exhibition was in one of Manhattan's most expensive galleries. A giant poster hung at the entrance: Vivienne, dressed in black lace, her expression beautiful and tragic. The title read: Eternal Love: To My Leonardo.

"What is this pretentious crap?"

A familiar voice snapped beside me. I turned to see Chloe, decked out in a ridiculous sequined jacket, rolling her eyes at the poster.

"Isn't this the gallery you booked for your fashion show?" I asked.

"Don't even get me started!" Chloe fumed. "It was my spot. Then this bitch whispered something in someone's ear and my show got bumped a month. And for what? This garbage? I wouldn't hang this stuff on my wall if you paid me. I bet they won't sell a hundred tickets!"

I looked at the expensive ticket in my hand and gave a sad smile.

"Maybe. But for some people, the audience doesn't matter."

I looked at the poster's romantic title.

"As long as the one person who matters is watching."

Chloe's sharp eyes caught my mood. She stopped complaining and put an arm around my shoulders, changing the subject.

"Hey, don't be too sad. You know what? I went to this super boring MIT alumni thing the other day and met this total nerd."

She gestured dramatically.

"He was hot, in a nerdy way. Gold-rimmed glasses, the whole deal. Turns out he's a cryptography professor! And you know what he said to me? He said my latest design looked like an 'illogical patchwork of colored rags'! The nerve!"

Her story made me laugh, lifting some of the gloom.

"Maybe he was just trying to get your attention."

"Please! A tech bro like that wouldn't know romance if it hit him in the face."

After saying goodbye to Chloe, I walked into the gallery.

It wasn't crowded. Mostly social climbers looking to kiss Moretti ass.

Vivienne was in the spotlight, giving an interview.

"Leonardo was the love of my life," she said to the camera, her eyes welling with tears. "Even after all these years, my heart still belongs only to him. This concert, every one of these paintings… it’s all for him, for my endless love..."

The reporters were eating it up.

But my eyes went to the corner of the room, to Rocco, standing in the shadows.

His face was a mask of fury.

A second later, he slammed his nearly crushed wine glass onto a passing waiter's tray and strode out of the room.

I don't know why I did it, but I followed him.

He was at the end of a long hall, by a dark fire escape, yanking at his tie.

He heard my footsteps and whipped around.

For a second, the raw violence in his eyes terrified me.

"Rocco..." I breathed.

Before I could react, a hand shot out and clamped around my wrist.

He dragged me into a service elevator.

BANG.

The metal doors slammed shut, plunging us into darkness.

Rocco shoved me against the cold wall, the overwhelming scent of whiskey flooding the small space.

"Rocco..."

I started to speak, but his mouth crashed down on mine, fierce and desperate.

His lips were hot, his tongue bitter with alcohol, stealing my breath. His hand tangled in my hair, holding my head so tight it hurt.

But I didn't fight back.

In this dark, hidden place, we were both the ones left behind.

He kissed me so deeply, so forcefully, as if I was the only thing that could save him.

"I love you," he whispered against my ear, his voice ragged.

My heart stopped.

Tears welled in my eyes.

The words I had waited five years to hear, and he was saying them now…

But in the next second, my blood ran cold.

Because in the darkness, in a voice torn with anguish, he whispered the name that truly owned his soul:

"Vivienne."

My body went completely still.

In the dark, Rocco couldn't see my face.

He couldn't see the tears soaking his collar.

And he would never know that in that moment, my heart died.

But I didn't push him away.

This was the last time. A final moment of warmth, even if it was stolen, even if it was meant for someone else.

I held him back with all my strength, burying my face in his neck so he wouldn't feel me shaking.

Just this once.

Let me pretend I'm the one he loves.

The elevator doors opened to the underground garage.

Rocco didn't let go. He scooped me up into his arms and carried me toward the black Rolls-Royce.

The driver discreetly raised the privacy screen.

Rocco tossed me onto the wide leather seat and followed, his heavy body pressing down on me.

He bit at my collarbone, his hands roaming my waist.

"Don't move," he growled, the command thick in his throat.

He fumbled in his suit pocket and pulled out a small, exquisite box. Inside was a massive pink diamond ring.

It was the matching piece to the necklace he’d sent me.

He grabbed my left hand and forced the ring onto my ring finger.

It was a perfect fit.

I stared at the brilliant, flashing diamond, my heart pounding.

On this finger...

Was this a proposal?

Even after he'd just whispered another woman's name, a tiny, stupid flame of hope flickered inside me.

"Rocco, what is—"

I wanted to ask. What does this mean? Do you want to marry me? Even if it's just to spite Vivienne?

Just then, a shrill ring shattered the mood in the car.

It was Rocco's private phone.

He scowled, about to hang up, but froze when he saw the name on the screen.

"Vivienne?"

The moment he answered, the lust and drunkenness vanished from his face, replaced by pure panic.

"What? Where? Don't be afraid, I'm coming right now!"

Vivienne's terrified screams came through the phone, mixed with the sounds of gunfire and shattering glass.

A rival family had attacked the gallery.

"Get out."

Rocco hung up the phone and spat the words at me.

Before I could even process it, the car door was open.

He shoved me out.

"Rocco!"

I fell onto the hard concrete, staring at him in disbelief.

"Out!"

He didn't even look at me. He slammed the door shut and roared at the driver, "Back to the gallery! Now!"

The car sped away, leaving me on the cold ground. My purse was still inside. My scarf was still on the seat.

I don't know how I made it out of that garage.

The wind and snow cut at my skin like knives, but I couldn't feel the cold.

My heart was already frozen solid.

I walked aimlessly through the streets, hugging myself. People stared at the strangely dressed, dazed woman wandering in the storm.

I finally collapsed against the cold metal railing of a corner coffee stand. My body was shaking uncontrollably.

“Miss? Are you alright?”

A gentle voice sounded from above.

I slowly looked up, but another sharp pain in my stomach made me groan, and my body began to slide down.

“You don’t look well.”

A warm hand caught my arm, stopping me from collapsing.

A man stood before me. He wore a tailored camel coat and gold-rimmed glasses.

There was no pity or mockery in his eyes, only a clean, genuine concern.

“I’m taking you to a hospital,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument as he helped me up.

“No… I’m fine, thank you,” I struggled to stand on my own, but my legs were jelly.

His voice was soft but firm. “There’s a clinic nearby. Trust me.”

Half-supported, half-carried, I was brought to the nearest community clinic.

Waiting for the test results, I sat on a cold bench in the hallway, chilled to the bone.

The kind man brought me a cup of hot water.

His phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen and stepped away to take the call.

He kept his voice low, but I managed to catch a few words: ‘…data confirmed… wipe the traces… maintain surveillance…’

His tone was cool and professional, a stark contrast to the gentle man from moments before.

After hanging up, he walked back, his warm, scholarly demeanor perfectly restored.

“Miss Clara Vance?” A nurse approached… The doctor looked at the report in her hand, her expression serious. “…you’re three weeks pregnant…”

Pregnant… The word exploded in my mind.

My hand instinctively went to my still-flat stomach. There was… a life inside me.

Rocco’s child.

Just then, behind me, the large screen in the hospital lobby lit up with breaking news.

[BREAKING: Moretti Don Rocco Moretti Appears at Ambushed Art Gala, Protects His Woman!]

On the screen, Rocco was covered in gunpowder smoke. A gun in one hand, the other wrapped tightly around a trembling Vivienne. He stared into the camera, his eyes as fierce as a wolf’s, declaring to the entire underworld:

“Vivienne is a Moretti woman. Anyone who touches her declares war on the Moretti family!”

Watching that man, a monster for the woman he loved, I felt a strange sense of relief.

He was finally getting what he wanted.

That place, in his arms, was never meant for me.

And the pink diamond on my ring finger suddenly felt like the cruelest joke in the world.

It wasn't a proposal.

It was a brand. A mark of property.

I don't remember how I walked out of the hospital.

The kind stranger was gone, but he'd paid my medical bill at the front desk.

I went back to that empty, old apartment, my hand still unconsciously shielding my stomach.

Then, I took off the pink diamond ring and, along with the black card with its limitless credit, tossed them onto the table.

The priceless antique violin stayed behind as well.

I didn't need compensation. I just wanted to be free.

The only things in this place that were truly mine were in that small, simple suitcase.

I wouldn't take a single thread from this place.

From now on, I would earn everything myself.

My phone buzzed.

It was an email from my old professor in Austria.

"Miss Vance, I heard you passed the audition. When can you arrive? We look forward to having you."

I wiped my tears and typed my reply.

"Yes, Professor. I'll be there.

The day after tomorrow."