Reclaiming My Path

I pushed the door open and saw Giovanna standing there in my silk robe—my gift from Enzo—and wearing my heirloom pendant.

She lifted a brow and mocked me, “The robe fits, the pendant’s mine, and you—get out.”

I grabbed Enzo, demanding an explanation, but he shoved a fake contract in my face, saying, “You signed it.”

“I did not. Stop lying!” I snapped.

He snapped at me, “This is family business. You know nothing.”

It seemed three years together was nothing but an act.

That very night, I ran away to Milan. I had nowhere to go and no one to turn to until Mark showed up out of nowhere.

“Don’t be scared,” he said. “I’ve got you. As long as I’m around, no one touches you.”

He protected me, and for a moment, I really thought I’d finally found someone I could rely on. However, when we were practicing at the shooting range later, I stared at him.

“Why are you helping me?” I asked. “And don’t tell me it’s because of that mess I left behind.”

His eyes flickered for a second before he answered, “Just trust me. That’s all you need to do.”

Something about the way he said it made my stomach twist.

This whole disaster was all one giant setup. And now here I am, gripping a gun, fighting for justice, but am I really avenging myself? Or was I already someone else’s pawn from the very beginning?

I crouched in front of the safe, my fingers clenched so tightly around two documents that my knuckles had turned white. One of them was our marriage contract, signed three days ago, its edges already wrinkled from being crushed in my hand.

When Enzo shoved that gold-stamped contract at me, the mix of cigar smoke and his usual cedar cologne had been so thick it almost drowned me.

“Lily,” he’d murmured, his fingertip brushing over the thorned rose tattoo along my collarbone—my family’s crest, the one my Papa inked on me for my eighteenth birthday. “Sign it, and we’ll be officially bonded under the Moretti name. I’ll give you half the control of the docks.”

I’d told him I needed time to think. Yet now, as my fingertips trembled across the forged signature on the contract, I could see how perfectly he had copied my handwriting, because he’d forgotten one thing: a tiny rosebud I would always draw at the very end of my signature. However, on this document, there was nothing but a cold, lifeless ink dot.

The second document was a partnership agreement with the Camorra. Enzo’s name sat right beside Giovanna’s, stamped with a bright red seal.

The Camorra was a Naples-based mafia organization that only pretended to get along with the Moretti family while hating us behind our backs. As for Giovanna, she was the woman who always wore a timid little smile and had moved into the apartment next door just last week.

The sharp tap of leather shoes echoed down the hallway, each step pounding against my chest. Panic shot through me. I shoved the papers behind me and pressed my back to the safe, holding my breath. Alas, Enzo was already at the doorway. The cuff of his black suit was dusted with cigar ash and faint traces from last night.

“What are you looking through?” he asked, voice cold as steel, his eyes locked onto my clenched hand.

I opened my mouth, but he was already striding over. In an instant, he snatched the documents from my grip. His fingers brushed my palm, cool with the smell of tobacco.

“This is family business. Don’t get yourself involved.” He stuffed the documents into his inner jacket pocket so fast that he almost fumbled.

So all I was to him was a tool to secure his power.

I raised my eyes to him, feeling the thorned rose tattoo along my collarbone tug painfully against my skin.

“Family business?” My voice shook. “You forge a contract to fool the entire family, and then you partner with our biggest enemy?”

He flicked open a lighter with a click and lit a cigar. Smoke hovered around his face, hiding the flicker of panic in his eyes.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he muttered. “Giovanna has leverage against my mother. I’m trapped.”

“Your mother passed away ten years ago. What leverage does Giovanna have on her?” I whispered, my chest tightening, but I didn’t dare push him too hard, for fear he’d shut down my plans of leaving.

Still, I stared at his shoes. “And her, wearing my silk robe… Was that you being ‘trapped’ too?”

Last Wednesday, I saw his car parked outside the next-door apartment. Giovanna walked toward the building, wearing my cream-colored silk robe, with her arm hooked through his.

That robe was my birthday gift from him. I’d told him it was too long, and he had laughed, saying I’d get used to it. But now, seeing it draped over another woman burned like staring into a spotlight.

The cigar slipped from his fingers, and the ember hit the floor, scorching the wood.

He crushed it under his heel, stomping down hard. “Lily, don’t push me.”

My nails dug into my palm, pain shooting up my arm. Papa always said Moretti women needed to stay composed.

“I’m not pushing you.”

I rose slowly and walked to the closet. One by one, I placed my neatly folded clothes into a suitcase, moving so gently it was as if everything might shatter. “I’ll be staying with Papa for a few days. It’s loud here. I won’t interfere with you and Giovanna… coordinating.”

“Don’t you dare leave,” he snapped, blocking the doorway with a straight, rigid arm.

“I won’t say anything I shouldn’t,” I murmured, lifting my eyes to him, doing my best to look obedient and harmless. “I won’t cause trouble for you or Papa.”

He stared for several seconds before finally stepping aside. With that, I walked into the guest room and shut the door behind me. Cold sweat soaked through my back.

Three years of love, one forged contract, my loyalty, and my devotion—everything had been nothing but stepping stones for his rise.

I reached under the mattress, fingers finding the hard edge of my passport.