Love Is Wrong, Only Letting Go Is Right

I stood there, frozen for a long time, as memories flooded my mind like a tidal wave.

The front office had emptied. The fluorescent lights above the reception counter hummed their low, indifferent hum. Through the frosted windows I could see soldiers moving in the parking lot, the black shapes of sedans pulling around to collect Dante and carry him wherever Viviana waited. Somewhere inside the building, a phone rang unanswered. I didn't move.

When I first entered the Luciano Family, I was broke. A civilian girl from an ordinary neighborhood brought into a world of blood oaths and front businesses through a union I barely understood. At the time, my younger Blackwood Sofia was diagnosed with a serious illness and she needed three million for treatment. The kind of money that didn't exist in my world but sat in petty-cash drawers in Dante's.

Don Luciano and Elena, already doing more than enough by accepting me into the household, had no obligation to do more, and I couldn't bring myself to ask for anything else. The blood-bound union was supposed to be my contribution, my silence, my obedience. I had given all three. To ask for money on top of it would have been to admit I was exactly what Dante's mother already suspected: a girl who had married above her station and intended to drain the family dry.

Dante, raised in privilege with a soldier's escort and an underboss's pocket money since he was sixteen, learned of my situation. He nodded, agreeing to lend me the money. For one brief, desperate night, I believed he was the man I had convinced myself he could be.

But the day before Sofia was scheduled for surgery, Dante suddenly backed out.

I still remembered his exact words. "Sorry, I bought a gift for a friend's birthday, so I don't have the money to lend you right now."

He'd said it casually, the way someone might mention a change in dinner plans. He didn't look at my face. He didn't need to. In his world, three million was a gesture, not a sum, and my Blackwood's life was a problem that belonged to a world he had never been required to notice.

Later, I ended up selling my blood to raise part of the money for Sofia's treatment. Twice, three times, until the nurse at the Catholic hospital under family watch told me I couldn't come back for at least a month without risking organ failure. It was while I was working a double shift as a waitress at a restaurant on the edge of Luciano territory that I ran into Dante.

He was proudly wearing an expensive diamond watch, all smiles as he wished Viviana a happy birthday.

The restaurant was one of the Family's neutral-ground spots, the kind of place where soldiers brought dates and capos held quiet celebrations. Viviana sat across from him in a white dress, her laugh bright and easy, and Dante's face held an expression I had never once seen directed at me: open, unguarded pleasure. He hadn't noticed me standing by the kitchen pass with a tray of dirty glasses. Or perhaps he had, and it simply hadn't mattered.

To Dante, I had always been nothing more than a tool to get back at his family. My Blackwood's life wasn't even worth considering.

Don Luciano and Dante had grown distant over the years, and whenever they tried to talk, it would end in a fight after just a few words. The Don's rosary beads would stop moving. Dante's jaw would lock. And the household would hold its breath until one of them left the room.

Years ago, Dante had entered my room in the middle of the night, sweet-talking me into sleeping with him, and afterward, he begged me to marry him. All part of his plan to sabotage Don Luciano's intention to take me under his protection as a daughter of the house. The Don had seen something useful in me, some steadiness or quiet capability that Dante could not tolerate being given to an outsider. So he had claimed me first. Not out of love. Out of spite.

In the end, he succeeded.

But I was the one who became trapped, desperately struggling in his hollow, elusive love. Fifteen years of setting tables for a man who ate elsewhere. Fifteen years of pressing my thumb to the inside of my wrist where the wedding bracelet sat, telling myself that the weight of it meant something.

At least now, it was still not too late to let go.

I left the front office without looking back. The parking lot smelled like diesel and the faint salt tang of the waterfront. I walked to my car alone, no soldier holding the door, no driver waiting with the engine running. That was what freedom looked like in this world: no one watching, no one reporting, no one caring where you went.

I was about to leave for interviews with several legitimate businesses across the city, looking for a new position. Clean work, clean books, a desk that didn't sit inside a building owned by a crime family.

Nina arrived just in time to stop me. She was leaning against the hood of my car when I reached the lot, arms crossed, a pen tucked behind her ear. She tapped it twice against her knuckle before she spoke.

"Why work for someone else when you could be the boss of your own front?"

I looked at her. The sun was low, throwing long shadows across the pavement. Somewhere behind us, the Luciano shipping warehouse continued its quiet double life, phones ringing, invoices filing, soldiers circling.

I thought it over carefully. After more than a decade of being controlled, of having every decision filtered through Luciano hierarchy and Luciano permission, I had long forgotten what true freedom even felt like.

My thumb brushed the bare inside of my wrist one more time. Then my hand went still.