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."

Just as I was about to turn off my phone, a call came in from Luca, Rocco’s right-hand man.

"Miss Vance, the Boss will be at the apartment shortly. Please… prepare yourself."

Prepare myself.

The words were a bitter joke.

Was he not satisfied after his heroic rescue?

Or was his frightened little rabbit, Vivienne, now unwilling to fulfill his needs?

I looked at my packed suitcase and laughed at myself.

Fine.

Let this be it.

A proper ending.

I shoved the suitcase deep into the back of the closet, hiding it behind a row of couture gowns I had no intention of taking.

Then, I changed into the black lace nightgown he had just sent me. The one that screamed what he wanted.

Half an hour later, Rocco arrived.

To my surprise, he wasn't angry or demanding.

He was carrying several takeout boxes from Le Bernardin.

Lobster and black truffle risotto.

My favorite.

"I remember you didn't eat much today."

He threw his coat, still cold and smelling of gunpowder, onto the sofa. He ordered his men to set the table.

He even lit candles.

A sudden, bizarre candlelight dinner.

"Boss, what is all this?" I asked, completely lost.

Rocco poured two glasses of red wine and sat down, his eyes dark and intense as he looked at me.

"About this afternoon… I was in a hurry. I shouldn't have left you like that."

Was that an apology?

Rocco Moretti never apologized.

This was the closest he would ever get.

He took a sip of wine. "The Rosetti family went too far. Five years ago, they were the ones who staged the car crash that killed my brother, Leonardo. For them to attack the gallery today… I had to teach them a lesson."

"Boss."

I cut him off, my voice calm and gentle. "You don't have to explain anything to me. I understand."

I raised my glass to him. "As the Don, it's your duty to protect your family. And it's only right that you protect the future Mrs. Moretti."

Rocco looked at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as if he couldn't believe how "understanding" I was being.

He reached across the table and took my hand, his thumb stroking the back of it.

"Clara, you've always been so good. That's what I like most about you."

The candlelight flickered.

In the dim light, he caressed my cheek and then leaned in to kiss me.

The kiss was soft, tasting of wine. It wasn't brutal like in the car, but held a tenderness I had never felt from him before.

His hand slid down to my waist, and when his fingers brushed against the thin lace, the lust in his eyes flared.

"You're wearing it," he murmured, his voice husky. "Beautiful."

This time, he was gentle.

No rough taking, only a slow, deliberate pleasure.

As if he wanted to make this moment last forever.

But I knew what it was. A man's guilt after an outburst of violence.

Or maybe a guilty conscience for the trip he was about to take.

Afterward, he held me, his fingers twirling my hair.

"It's my birthday the day after tomorrow," he said suddenly.

"I know," I whispered, my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "Are you going to Sicily, Boss?"

It was his ritual.

Every year for his birthday, he went back to the family estate in Sicily. To visit his brother's grave. To spend time with Vivienne and the family elders.

It was a sacred Moretti place. A place I was not allowed to go.

"Yes. For a few days."

He kissed my forehead. "Wait for me to get back. When I do, I have something to tell you."

Something to tell me?

That you're getting married? That our game is over?

It didn't matter anymore.

"Okay."

I looked up and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Happy birthday, Rocco. In advance."

It was probably the last time I would ever say it to him.

Rocco seemed pleased with my obedience. He rolled over, pinning me beneath him, his eyes hazy with desire.

"Clara, you've been so fucking good lately. Tomorrow… I'll have a surprise for you tomorrow. A reward."

The next morning, I woke up to an empty bed.

A note was on the nightstand: "Wait for me tonight."

I couldn't help but smile bitterly.

Tonight?

By tonight, I'd be on the other side of the Atlantic.

I got up without a second thought.

I crumpled the note and threw it in the trash.

I pulled my small suitcase from the back of the closet.

I changed into a simple pair of jeans and a hoodie, and pulled on a baseball cap.

I glanced at the phone on the table, the one that was still blinking with missed calls from him. The private phone he gave me.

I left it there, right next to the charger.

Goodbye to this five-year-long, ridiculous dream.

I rested a hand on my stomach, whispering to the life inside.

"Baby, Mommy's taking you away from here."

Then, I pulled open the door and walked out into the New York dawn.

And I didn't look back.