Chapter 84 CHAPTER 084

Chapter 84 CHAPTER 084
Anna shook her head. “No… I can’t. I can’t fall for someone like him… someone as ruthless as the Boss.”

“It’s probably just my hormones. Yes, my pregnancy hormones messing with my head,” she muttered to herself.

Her hand drifted to her stomach, rubbing gently over the small but growing bump.

It was already beginning to show, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before it became obvious to everyone.

“I need to lie down,” she murmured. “Maybe if I rest… maybe my hormones will calm down, and I’ll be able to think straight again.”

With a quiet sigh, she moved to the bed and eased herself down onto the mattress. The mattress dipped beneath her weight.

Slowly, she lay back, letting her head sink into the pillow.

The faint scent of Vincenzo clung to the sheet.

Her breath stilled for a moment before she closed her eyes.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Anna woke, sunlight streamed through the window in thick ribbons of gold, warmer and brighter than before. Morning had quietly slipped into afternoon while she slept.

She sat up slowly, blinking against the brightness.

Her gaze swept across the room—the couch, the armchair by the window, the closed door. It was empty. There was no sign of Vincenzo.

She pushed herself off the bed and padded into the bathroom.

At the sink, she splashed cold water onto her face, trying to wash away the last traces of sleep.

The chill jolted her awake.

She did it again—and then again—before gripping the edges of the sink and lifting her head to stare at her reflection.

The girl in the mirror looked tired—her eyes rimmed red, her hair tangled from sleep.

With an exasperated sigh, Anna turned from the mirror and returned to the bedroom, perching on the edge of the bed.

She let her eyes wander across the room, boredom coiling in her chest.

After a beat, she rose and began pacing the room, each step echoing softly in the empty space.

Across the rug, past the armchair, past the window—back and forth, back and forth. Her shadow stretched long and restless, mirroring every step.

Then her gaze landed on the set of drawers beside Vincenzo’s bed, and she froze mid-step.

The drawers were dark wood, aged but carefully maintained, their polished brass handles glinting in the light.

Without a second thought, she stepped closer.

Her fingers hovered over the top handle, and a flicker of hesitation ran through her.

Opening them would be wrong—his private space, his things—but curiosity gnawed at her relentlessly.

Her hand withdrew, then rose again, curiosity growing with every heartbeat.

Fingers curled around the handle, and she pulled.

The drawer slid open smoothly, almost silently.

Inside were neat stacks of documents: property deeds, bank statements, and legal contracts, all arranged with meticulous order.

She rifled through them briefly, fingers brushing over the edges, then closed the drawer.

She opened the second drawer. It held more documents.

Lifting the top folder, she glanced at the headers: shipping manifests, cargo inventories, names of companies she didn’t recognize—and didn’t want to.

With a quiet click, she closed the drawer.

The third drawer resisted as she pulled, heavier than the others.

She pulled again, and finally, with a soft groan of effort, it opened.

Inside lay a large, brown leather-bound photo album, its cover unmarked and smooth.

She lifted it with care, the weight solid in her hands, and slowly opened it.

The first page held a black-and-white photograph, edges slightly faded.

A baby boy, wrapped in a white blanket, his tiny face scrunched, one fist pressed near his mouth.

It was Vincenzo.

A soft smile spread across Anna’s face.

He had looked so cute and innocent, a stark contrast to the ruthless, cold, and guarded man he had grown into.

Anna turned the page, and a photograph of a young woman looked back at her.

She had black hair, dark eyes, sharp cheekbones.

Baby Vincenzo rested on her hip, both of them smiling.

Her smile was wide and genuine, her head tilted slightly, the free hand resting gently on his small back.

She looked just like Vincenzo.

Same jaw. Same brow. Same shape of the mouth.

But her eyes were warm.

Anna knew immediately—this was Vincenzo’s mother.

Tracing a finger lightly over the photograph, she whispered, “She’s so pretty.”

She turned the pages and saw more photographs of Vincenzo as a toddler.

In one, he sat in a sandbox, his mother kneeling beside him; in another, he posed in a school uniform, missing two front teeth, his mother’s hand resting on his shoulder; in yet another, he blew out birthday candles, frosting smeared across his face, his sisters crowding around him.

There were others, too: Martina, younger, hair in pigtails; Isabella, just a baby, cradled in Rosalia’s arms.

Each photo captured a different moment of warmth and family, offering Anna a quiet glimpse into their life together.

She noticed that in most of the pictures, their father was absent, likely busy with his mafia affairs.

Page after page, holidays and vacations unfolded before her, little moments of joy that brought a smile to her face as she flipped through them.

Then, on the next page, a family portrait caught her eye. Vincenzo stood with his sisters and their father, all dressed in black.

Their mother was absent, and the solemn expressions on their faces only deepened the sense of loss.

Her absence left a hollow space in the frame, invisible yet absolute.

From that photo onward, Vincenzo never truly smiled in any of the photos.

His features had hardened in each one—jaw tight, eyes shadowed. He stood rigid, hands at his sides, shoulders squared, as if bracing against the world.

His expression never softened. Smiles came and went, but they never reached his eyes.

Even in the midst of his family, he stayed apart, as if he were present but trying to keep himself at a distance.

It was as if something had been taken from him, and the loss echoed in every image.

Anna closed the photo album, a quiet ache settling in her chest. She didn’t know why.

She had never met this woman, and yet a sharp pang of sorrow struck her at the thought of her death—and for Vincenzo’s family, left to bear the loss.

Of all people, she understood what it was like to lose someone dear.

She returned the album to the drawer, handling it carefully.

Just as she was about to slide it closed, a glint in the back corner caught her eye. It was silver.

Reaching in, she lifted a delicate necklace.

The chain was fine, slightly tarnished, with a small locket hanging at the end, cool beneath her fingers.

Her thumb found the clasp, and it opened with a soft click.

Inside, a photograph looked up at her. A woman smiled, brunette hair pinned back from her face, eyes bright though the color was impossible to tell from the faded image.

Her lips curved gently, shy but genuine, pretty in a quiet, unassuming way—not glamorous or striking, just soft.

Anna turned the locket over.

A name was etched into the metal in small, elegant letters, pressed deep into the silver so it would never fade.

“Lucia…” Anna murmured.

“What are you doing with that?” The voice was cold and familiar—one she would recognize anywhere, even in her sleep.

Anna spun around. Vincenzo stood in the doorway, eyes locked on the locket in her hand.

Her fingers clenched around the chain. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to…” she began, but stopped as he crossed the room in three long strides, stopping just in front of her.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t grab her.

He simply held out his hand, palm up.

“Give it to me.”

Anna’s heart hammered. Her hand trembled as she placed the locket in his palm.

His fingers closed around it.

For a long moment, he didn’t move or speak.

He just stood there, staring down at the closed locket, jaw tight, knuckles white against the silver chain.

“Bo—Vincenzo.” Anna’s voice was barely a whisper. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have opened your drawer. I shouldn’t have touched your things. I was just… curious. I didn’t think—I’m sorry.”

He said nothing.

His thumb traced the locket’s surface once. Then twice—a subtle, almost unconscious motion, as if he had done it a thousand times before.

Finally, his hand closed into a fist around it, and he turned away.

He walked to the window—the same one he had stood at that morning—and stopped with his back to her.

Anna’s chest tightened. She had expected anger, maybe even violence, but he hadn’t lashed out.

Relief and fear mingled, leaving her unsure whether she should feel safe or afraid.

Minutes passed. No one spoke.

Finally, without turning, Vincenzo spoke.

“You’re curious, aren’t you?”

“Curious?” Anna echoed, her brow furrowed.

“About her. You want to know more about her, don’t you?”

“Who… who are you talking about?” Anna admitted.

“Lucia.”