Back in the car, my palms were soaked in sweat. But my eyes were sharper than they'd ever been.

I pulled out a secure phone I kept for family business only and dialed a number I hadn't touched in a long time. It connected on the first ring.

"Francesca." My father's voice, that of Giovanni Moretti, the supreme Don of the European Mafia Alliance. "You're finally calling home."

The moment I heard him, something inside me almost cracked. But I held it down. I'd been stupid enough to believe in some fairy-tale love story, and it had cost me everything.

"Papa," I said, and took a breath. My voice came out steady and hard. "I was wrong. New York isn't where I belong. Kane isn't worth my time. Give me one week, and then I'm coming home as your heir."

I hung up and immediately got my lawyer on the line to kill the asset transfers. Then I started clearing everything I needed to leave the country cleanly.

Two hours later, I let myself back into my private apartment, exhausted and ready to be done with all of it.

Alicia Holt was still there.

She was wearing the white silk robe I'd had made in Paris, a one-of-a-kind piece from a couture runway, six figures for the fabric alone. She had it dragging across the floor, the hem soaking up wine stains and whatever else she'd tracked through my home. She was treating a hundred-thousand-dollar garment like a gas station bathrobe.

She was sprawled across my custom leather sofa like she owned the place, one hand wrapped around a glass of my Pétrus.

When she saw me, she didn't even flinch. Instead, she smiled — that particular brand of saccharine-sweet that functions as a knife.

"Oh, Francesca! You're back so late. Don't get upset. Kane said you're always so easygoing, you wouldn't mind me borrowing the bathroom and a robe." She glanced down at the silk with exaggerated disappointment. "Honestly though? It wrinkles if you look at it wrong. Not exactly practical. We don't really do delicate where I come from — you know, real life, rough edges, all that. This is a bit too precious for actual people, don't you think?"

That act — all sugar to your face and a blade in your back. It turned my stomach.

I didn't spare her a look. I kept my eyes on Kane.

"Explain," I said, my voice like ice. "Why is this woman in my apartment?"

Kane didn't apologize. He didn't even try.

"Hey, come on, you're reading this wrong," he said, easy as breathing. "Alicia got something on her outfit, so I told her she could use the shower. You know how it is — girls who grew up in the life don't sweat the small stuff. She didn't mean anything by it. You're not seriously going to make a whole thing out of this, are you?"

I looked at him and felt something in my chest go very, very still.

I thought of the first night a man cornered me in an alley and how Kane had stepped in front of me without hesitating, taken a beating until his face was a mess of blood. I thought of the time I'd stumbled at a crime family dinner and embarrassed myself, and how he'd flipped the table, put a gun to the man who laughed, and dared anyone else to say a word.

I'd thought that was love. I'd even used my family's resources, quietly and without him ever knowing, to clear the path that let a bastard son with no standing build his own territory and rise.

Everything he had, I had given him.

Alicia, emboldened now, pressed closer to him. "Francesca, you grew up behind closed doors. You don't understand what it's like out here, the life Kane and I come from. We have history. You can't really be threatened by that, can you?" She leaned into his side with a small, victorious smile aimed right at me, savoring every second of it.

I almost laughed.

She wanted to tell me I didn't understand the life? If she ever found out who my father was, the man every crime family in Europe answered to, she'd be on her knees begging before she finished the sentence.

Then Kane said the thing that made it impossible to stay quiet.

He turned to me with the casual ease of someone asking for a glass of water. "Actually, since you're heading back to Europe, that Manhattan apartment is just going to sit empty. Why not let Alicia move in? It's nothing to someone like you. She can look after the place. That works, doesn't it?"

He wanted to hand our safehouse — the place we'd built together and filled with every memory we'd made — to the woman he was sleeping with.

I was done.

I pulled the door open. My voice was flat and final.

"No. Get out. Both of you. Now."

Something shifted in Kane's face, a flicker he couldn't quite hide. He wasn't used to seeing me like this. The warmth was gone, and there was nothing left in my eyes for him to work with.

For a moment he just stared. Then, like flipping a switch, the mask came back on.

"Hey, don't be like this. You're tired, right? I'll take Alicia home, and we can talk properly tonight when I'm back. I'll make it up to you. Promise."

He took Alicia's arm and walked out.

Make it up to me? There was nothing left to make up for.

The door slammed behind them.

I stood there staring at the space they'd left: the wine-stained floor, the ruined couture robe crumpled like trash, the cheap perfume still hanging in the air. I thought about the two of them in my bed, and the nausea was overwhelming.

This apartment was contaminated. I couldn't breathe in it for one more second.

I took out my phone and sent a message to building management: "Put this unit on the market immediately. Everything inside, furniture, clothes, personal items, dispose of it all. I want new ownership confirmed within three days."

Thirty minutes later, I was standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the presidential suite at the most expensive hotel in New York, with the whole city glittering sixty floors below.

I showered, changed into a clean robe, and sat down on the bed, and that's when my phone started going off.

Transaction alerts, one after another. A Chanel logo belt. A Gucci all-over monogram suit in clashing red and green. A Hermès bag in the most aggressively garish colorway they offered. In the span of a few minutes, my secondary card had been charged over six figures. Every piece was designer, every piece was loud, and every piece looked like exactly what it was: money trying to pass as taste.

None of it was for me.

I didn't even need to think twice. Kane had taken Alicia on a late-night luxury shopping spree on my card.

I leaned back against the headboard and felt the irony settle over me like a cold fog.

I remembered the day I handed him that card. He'd taken it with shaking hands and immediately pushed it back to me, eyes damp at the corners.

"Fran, I can't spend your money. I'm a man, I don't do that." He'd looked at me with so much earnest feeling. "I don't need any of it. All those expensive things people chase — they mean nothing to me. What I have to give you is worth more than any of that. It's my whole heart."

To prove how deeply he meant that, he'd spent weeks collecting scrap metal and cheap crystals off the street and welded me a music box for my birthday, crooked seams and rough edges and all. I'd treasured it like it was made of gold.

Now that same man was blowing my money on the loudest bags in the store for the woman he'd been sleeping with. The same man who had sworn that luxury was beneath him.

He hadn't thought luxury was tacky. He'd just been broke, and too proud to admit he wanted it. Every word of sentiment had been a loan he was quietly collecting interest on.

And then his message came through:

*Babe, something came up with the crew tonight — some trouble with a few blocks. I can't make it back. Get some sleep, don't overthink things, keep warm. I'll bring you those cheese bagels from your favorite place first thing in the morning. My heart's only ever yours.*

I opened his live location.

He was at Alicia's apartment.

I sat there for a moment. Then I laughed, quiet and cold as winter asphalt.

Three years. He'd kept this up for three years, and he'd had the nerve to think I was stupid enough to keep swallowing it.

Every dollar he'd ever spent, every block he controlled, every piece of standing he had in New York, I had built it for him. Under the table and without leaving any trace, I had funneled my family's resources into his pockets and cleared every obstacle in his path. A bastard son with no backing had become a man with territory and respect, and none of it was his.

Time to take it back.

I picked up the private line that connected to my family's people in North America and kept my voice even: "Freeze every account Kane holds that was opened through my family's channels or funded with my capital. Cancel all secondary cards effective immediately. Pull every liquidity line I extended through the overseas trust. Three minutes. I want it all gone."

I hung up. Blocked his number. Powered down that line entirely.

Then I lay back on the mattress, closed my eyes, and let out a long, slow breath.

Enjoy tonight, Kane. Both of you.

Because tomorrow morning, when the sun comes up and every card stops working and every account runs dry, I want to see exactly how strong that "connection" of yours really is.