Chapter 83

Chapter 83
Vincenzo pov

The front door whispered shut. Not a slam. No dramatics.

Just finality.

She was gone.

I stared at the door for a long time after she left. The room felt… larger. Louder. Like her absence screamed louder than her presence ever did.

And still—I didn’t move.

Because moving would mean admitting something happened.

And I was Vincenzo.

I don’t admit.
I don’t apologize.
I sure as hell don’t chase.

But the sting on my cheek from her slap? That was still there. Not just skin-deep either. It had sunk all the way into my blood.

I dragged my fingers through my hair, cursed under my breath, and finally stood. The mattress groaned behind me, like even it was tired of holding my weight.

I should’ve let her talk.

No—I should’ve told her to stay.

But I didn’t. Because I’m a mafia boss. I don’t beg women to stay. Not even ones like her.

Especially not ones like her.

She gets under my skin. Every. Damn. Time.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway, the floors creaking under my boots. My house felt colder, like she’d taken the heat with her. Maybe she had.

I knew where she’d be.

She wouldn’t leave the compound. She was too stubborn for that—and too smart. She knew what waited out there for a girl like her with enemies like mine.

And Marcello’s.

I turned the corner into the kitchen and found Claire already pouring herself a glass of wine.

Of course she was.

She sat barefoot on the marble counter like a queen bored of her own kingdom, swirling red liquid like it was blood and she was a vampire who hadn’t fed in days.

When she looked up and saw me, her smirk was instant.

“Well, well,” she said, voice like silk with razors hidden underneath. “Did the porcelain doll finally break?”

I didn’t respond.

I just opened the fridge, grabbed the bottle of water I didn’t want, and twisted the cap until it snapped in my hand.

Claire slid off the counter with the elegance of someone who never tripped over her own guilt. “She stormed past me on her way out. Looked like hell. Eyes puffy. Breathing heavy. Did you kill her feelings or just rearrange them?”

“Where is she?” I asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “You think I keep track of her?”

“She didn’t leave the estate.”

“No,” Claire agreed, taking a sip. “She’s dramatic, not suicidal.”

I hated that she was right.

“She’s probably sulking by the garden like some rejected Disney princess,” Claire went on. “Waiting for birds to braid her hair or some shit.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” she snapped, suddenly sharp. “You’ll defend her? How adorable. What happened, Vincenzo? She finally grew a spine and told you off?”

I didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

Claire scoffed. “I told you from the beginning she wasn’t your type.”

“She’s not a type,” I muttered.

Claire tilted her head. “That sounds dangerously close to an emotion.”

“She’s not your concern.”

“Oh, but she is, brother.” Claire walked over, heels clicking now. “Because when you bring a stray into this house, you bring her into my world. And I don’t like her.”

“You don’t have to.”

“She’s reckless. Mouthy. Always crying, always demanding something. Attention, protection, answers. You think that makes her strong, but it makes her a liability. She’s not one of us. She never will be.”

My jaw ticked.

Claire leaned closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “You can’t love a girl like that, Vincenzo. You can only ruin her. And that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“I never said I loved her.”

“You didn’t have to. I see the way you look at her. Like you’re trying not to fall.” Claire stepped back. “But let me tell you something: our name is a cliff. And if you let her fall, she won’t survive the landing.”

I clenched the water bottle until it buckled.

“You done?” I said.

“For now.” She took another sip. “But if you’re looking for her, I’d try the back patio. That’s where all sad little birds go to sing.”

I didn’t thank her. I just turned and walked.

The house felt bigger with every step. Emptier. Every room I passed carried her scent, her shadow, her echo. She wasn’t gone, not really—but it felt like she was. And I hated how much I noticed.

I stepped outside into the cool evening air.

And there she was.

Back against the stone wall, knees pulled up to her chest, hair falling in messy waves over her face. Her shoulders were trembling, just enough to betray the fact that she was crying again.

She didn’t hear me at first.

Didn’t see me.

And I should’ve turned around right then. Let her have her moment. Let her think I didn’t care.

But I couldn’t.

I stepped forward, and she stiffened instantly.

“Don’t,” she said, without looking at me. “Just… don’t.”

I stopped a few feet away.

Silence stretched between us like a tightrope.

“You don’t get to hurt me and then check in like it’s damage control,” she whispered.

“I wasn’t going to,” I lied.

She looked up then. Eyes swollen, face streaked with tears and rage and the kind of vulnerability that made my chest feel too small for my lungs.

“Why are you here, Vincenzo?” she asked. “Come to finish what you started?”

I shook my head.

“I said go to hell,” she said, standing now. “Not follow me into the garden like some ghost with regrets.”

“You left.”

“No,” she snapped, “you pushed me away. Again. And again. And again. And I’m tired of bleeding just to prove I’m still alive to you.”

“I didn’t ask you to bleed.”

“But you never stopped me either.”

That one hurt. More than I let her see.

I looked away, jaw tight.

She laughed bitterly. “You know what’s funny? I expected Marcello to hurt me. But you? You had a way of making me feel safe and unsafe at the same damn time. Like loving you was a risk, but not loving you was a bigger one.”

“I never wanted you to love me,” I said quietly.

“Well, you shouldn’t have kissed me like you did.”

Her voice cracked. Just a little. But enough.

“Tell me, Vincenzo,” she continued, stepping closer, “do you even feel anything? Or is your heart just another part of your business empire—closed to the public and guarded with guns?”

I looked at her.

Really looked.

And it wasn’t just heartbreak in her eyes—it was betrayal. Exhaustion. Hope, barely clinging to life.

“I feel,” I said.

It came out rough. Almost broken.

She froze.

“I don’t show it,” I admitted. “Because in my world, love is weakness. It’s a tool used against you. And I’ve had everything I care about turned into leverage.”

“I’m not leveraged,” she whispered.

“No,” I said. “You’re a mirror. You show me everything I don’t want to see.”

Her breath hitched.

“And maybe I’m not ready for that,” I added.

She stared at me. Then I stepped back.

“I don’t want to be perfect,” she said. “I never asked for something safe or soft or easy. I asked for real. For you. But if this is all I’ll ever get—cold walls, mixed signals, and silence—then I’m done.”