Chapter 82

Chapter 82

Lyra pov

I wished I had stayed.

Moon goddess, if I had known this was how it would end up, I never would’ve stepped out of that car. Never would’ve let Vincenzo’s cold hands replace Marcello’s fire. Never would’ve believed him when he said I was safer with him.

“Why are you doing this to me, Vincenzo?” My voice was shaking, raw like something had clawed its way out of my throat. Tears blurred my vision, but I didn’t wipe them. What was the point?

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look at me.

Just sat on the edge of that ratty mattress with a cigarette balanced between his fingers like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He brought it to his lips slowly, took a long drag, and exhaled as if I hadn’t spoken at all. The smoke curled into the air between us, a ghost of silence.

“Vincenzo.” I stepped closer. My bare feet scraped against the dusty wooden floor. My voice cracked. “Talk to me.”

He turned his head halfway. Not all the way. Never all the way.

“Shut up, Lyra,” he muttered, the words low and gritted, like rusted chains grinding. “I need peace.”

Peace?

My laugh snapped out of me like a whip. Bitter. Ugly. Real.

“Peace? You want peace?” I marched forward now, rage spitting out from between the tears. “Then why the hell did you take me from Marcello? Why did you show up with your gun and your little army of suits like I was some pawn in your game, huh?”

Still no answer.

He smoked.

The end of his cigarette burned bright for a moment in the dim light, like it wanted to be a star in this godforsaken hellhole of a room.

I was trembling, fists clenched at my sides. “You knew you couldn’t give me what I needed. You knew it. And still, you pulled me into your world like I was some souvenir to hang around your neck.”

He still didn’t flinch.

“You know what, Vincenzo?” I took a step back and jabbed a finger toward the door. “Go to hell.”

His jaw tightened—but he didn’t move. Didn’t react.

“I want peace too, okay?” My voice rose with each word, sharp, furious. “But this… whatever this thing you and Marcello are passing me around in? This sick, twisted performance? It’s over. You don’t get to keep me here like some dirty secret and then have the audacity to ask for peace.”

I didn’t realize I’d walked to the edge of the mattress until he finally moved.

He stood.

Slowly.

All six-foot-something of steel and shadows, rising like a storm that had been brewing for hours. The cigarette dropped to the floor, half-smoked, a line of ash falling with it. His eyes finally met mine—and they were cold. Not empty. Worse. Indifferent.

“Let me explain something to you,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “You aren’t important.”

It felt like being shot in the chest.

But he wasn’t finished.

“You’re not important to me, Lyra. Not to Marcello. You’re just… a distraction. A mistake. We keep you around like some broken ornament that we forgot to throw away.”

The words shattered something in me. Not just my heart. No, this felt deeper, like something primal breaking inside. I stumbled back, hit the mattress behind me, and sat because my legs suddenly weren’t legs anymore. Just shaking, useless things.

And then the fire came.

The rage behind the heartbreak.

I stood up.

Slapped him.

The sound cracked through the room, echoed in the space like it had smacked the walls, the ceiling, everything. His face barely turned, but I saw the twitch in his cheek. Saw the darkness flare in his eyes.

I didn’t stop.

I shoved him. Hard. “If I’m so unimportant, Vincenzo, then go tell your sister the same thing. Go tell Claire that I’m nothing. Go ahead. Look her in the eye and tell her how disposable I am.”

He blinked.

Just once.

That silence stretched again, but this time it was different. Heavy.

“You think this makes you powerful?” I sneered. “Keeping me locked up, keeping me quiet, pushing me down every time I try to breathe? If I’m nothing, then let me go. Stop playing this game.”

“I’m not playing.”

“You’re a coward,” I snapped. “You pretend to be some cold-blooded mafia boss who doesn’t feel anything, but you can’t even look at me when you hurt me. You smoke. You sulk. You drown in your own self-pity while I burn alive in front of you.”

He lunged.

But not to hit me. No.

He grabbed my face with both hands, fingers rough against my jaw, and pressed his forehead to mine like he wanted to suffocate me with proximity. “You think I don’t feel?” he hissed. “You think this is easy for me?”

I glared at him, breathless. “It’s not supposed to be easy. That’s what love is, Vincenzo. But you wouldn’t know that, would you? You wouldn’t recognize love if it punched you in the face and carved your name into its chest.”

He let go.

Pushed me back.

Hard.

I stumbled and landed on the mattress again, heart thundering.

“I never asked you to love me,” he growled, pacing now. “I never promised you anything.”

“But you acted like it,” I said, standing again even though my legs ached. “You kissed me like I mattered. You held me like I was precious. You looked at me like I was the only thing keeping you human. And then you turned cold.”

He didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t.

So I filled the silence.

“Do you think I don’t see the guilt in your eyes every time you look at me? Do you think I don’t know that Marcello still calls, still asks about me, and you just hang up?”

He stopped pacing.

“Let me go back to him,” I whispered. “If I’m nothing to you, then set me free.”

“I can’t.”

My breath caught.

His voice cracked—not much, just a fissure—but I heard it.

“You can’t?” I repeated, stepping forward. “Or you won’t? There’s a difference, Vincenzo. One means you have no choice. The other means you choose to keep hurting me.”

He looked at me like I was a puzzle he didn’t know how to solve. “He’ll break you, Lyra.”

“And you’re not?”

He closed his eyes.

“I’d rather be broken by love than be shattered by indifference,” I said quietly.

The room was still again.

Even the dust in the air seemed to pause.

I looked around the room, at the walls that had witnessed every fight, every kiss, every lie. I didn’t belong here. Not anymore.

“You know,” I said, walking toward the door, “I used to think you were cold because you’d seen too much. Now I know you’re just afraid. Afraid of what happens if you let someone matter.”

I grabbed the doorknob.

He didn’t stop me.

Didn’t even blink.

“You don’t get to break me and then mourn the pieces,” I said, my voice steady now. “And if I’m nothing to you, then you’ll let me walk out that door.”

He stayed silent.

So I did.

I walked.

One foot in front of the other, down that long hallway of regrets and half-spoken truths. My heart wasn’t just broken. It was bruised, battered, but somehow still beating.

I didn’t look back.

If he wanted me, really wanted me, he’d have to do more than just smoke his silence and shove me away.

He’d have to choose me.

And until then…

He could go to hell.