Clara Russo POV

The private aviation terminal was a fortress. Armed men in dark suits stood at every exit, their eyes tracking everything.

I sat in a corner armchair, drowning in a high-necked sweater to hide how thin I'd gotten, my face caked in foundation to mask the death pallor underneath. A dull cramp pulsed in my stomach, a ticking clock reminding me I was running out of time.

The double doors swung open, and Silas walked in.

The temperature in the room dropped.

He wore a tailored black suit that fit his broad shoulders like armor. His dark hair was swept back, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He moved with the cold, lethal stillness of a man who had killed and would kill again.

This wasn't the boy who'd promised me forever. This was the Don.

His eyes found mine, and a hot pressure built behind my own eyes. His gaze was hard, assessing, and utterly empty of the warmth I remembered.

He stopped a few feet from my chair. "I'm here to honor the blood marker. What do you want?"

I swallowed the knot in my throat. "I just wanted to see you."

"How long are you staying?" I asked.

"Three or four days." His tone was flat, disinterested.

He didn't ask about my health. He didn't notice the deep lines carved into my face, or how my hands were trembling, or that my sweater hung off my shoulders like a tent.

An associate stepped forward for his luggage. "The penthouse," Silas ordered, his eyes never leaving me. "I keep my own schedule."

I stood up slowly, gripping the armrest to steady a wave of dizziness. "There's a private espresso bar in the back."

I led him to the small counter. My hands found their old rhythm—two shots of espresso, a splash of cold water, no sugar. The one thing my body still remembered how to do for him.

I pushed the cup across the counter. He picked it up and took a slow sip, his dark eyes fixed on me over the rim.

"Your tastes have changed." He glanced at the plain hot water I'd poured for myself.

I used to drink black coffee with him every morning. Now the thought of its acidity made my stomach twist.

"People change," I said.

He set the cup down hard. "We used to debate. Which is harder—to walk away, or to hold on?"

My chest tightened. "I remember."

"You always said walking away was the coward's choice." He stepped closer. "And I argued for the agony of it. That it takes a man tearing out a piece of himself to leave someone he loves."

I forced myself to meet his eyes. "To hold on is the real test. Loyalty to the Famiglia. Standing in the fire and letting it burn you. You were right."

Silas slammed his hand on the marble counter. I flinched.

"You threw away five years like it meant nothing," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "How the hell is that anything but selfishness?"

The weight of the secret crushed down on me—the cancer, his mother's threats, the staged betrayal, all of it locked inside my chest like a coffin. I wanted to scream the truth at him. I wanted him to know that every word I'd said five years ago had been a lie to save his life.

Instead, a violent cough tore through my throat. I turned and pressed a napkin to my lips. When I pulled it away, there was a single bright spot of red on the white paper.

I crumpled it in my fist before he could see.

"You win, Silas," I rasped. "You win."

---

Clara Russo POV

A brutal cramp ripped through my stomach, sharp as a blade. I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles white.

"I need to go. You should head to your penthouse."

Silas watched me, his eyes narrowed and calculating. He didn't offer to help.

"One more thing," he said casually, adjusting his cuff. "I need a historic venue. Suitable for wedding portraits."

The words didn't hit me—they passed clean through, leaving a cold, hollow space behind.

Wedding portraits.

I forced air through the pain and kept my face blank. "There's a gothic estate on the outskirts of the city. It has the old-world stonework your family prefers."

"You'll act as my guide tomorrow." It wasn't a request. "I'm cashing in a fraction of the marker."

I nodded. The blood oath was iron. I couldn't refuse.

"I'll be there."

I fled the terminal without looking back. I hailed a cab, and the moment my apartment door clicked shut behind me, my legs gave out. I collapsed on the hardwood floor, curling into myself against the pain.

Serena rushed in from the kitchen. She slid across the floor and grabbed my shoulders.

"Clara!"

The dam broke. Ragged, ugly sobs tore out of me, each one a knife in my stomach.

"I can't do this, Serena. I can't cut my soul away from his." I choked on the words. "He's getting married."

Serena pulled me against her, holding me with a fierce, desperate strength while I fell apart on the floor.

That night, sleep came in fragments, soaked in cold sweat. When I finally drifted off, the nightmare was waiting for me—the same one I'd had for five years. I was tied to a chair in a warehouse. Silas stood over me, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, his hands dark with fresh blood. "Why did you betray the Famiglia?" he demanded. I tried to explain, to tell him everything, but my lips were stitched shut with black thread. I couldn't tell him about the cancer. I couldn't tell him the truth.

I jolted awake, gasping, my lungs burning, my sheets soaked.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A single text from Silas: "Already en route to the estate."

I threw on jeans and a loose coat to hide my deteriorating frame. I swallowed a handful of painkillers dry, choking them down, and ran out the door.

When my cab pulled up to the gothic estate, Silas was already waiting in the gravel drive, flanked by four armed soldiers. A thick morning fog rolled over the grounds, giving everything a spectral, haunted beauty.

For one stupid, fleeting second, as I walked toward him through the mist, it felt like no time had passed at all. Like I was just meeting the man I loved for a quiet morning walk.

Then he turned, and the illusion shattered.

"Good morning, Clara." His voice was professionally polite, utterly distant—as if I were a business associate he barely tolerated.

I was nothing to him now.

No. Worse than nothing. I was unfinished business he wanted gone.

---