Scars Of Love: The Boss's Misunderstood Ex

I stood behind the counter at Lexi’s bridal boutique, organizing the inventory list.

The glass doors of the shop swung open.

Falco walked in.

Dressed in a flawless bespoke dark suit, he radiated a calm, lethal authority. He was the Godfather of this city, every step exuding predatory calculation.

Gia clung tightly to his arm, wearing an immaculate designer dress, playing the innocent contrast to his dark presence.

Falco frowned, looking around.

"The selection here is too small," he murmured to Gia. "I’ll have the private jet take you to Paris this afternoon. You deserve the best."

Gia played the role of the sweet, perfect mob bride.

She rested her head on his shoulder, insisting on supporting local artisans. But as she spoke, her eyes swept the room and landed on me.

A vicious smirk flickered across her face.

Falco indulgently agreed. He pulled out a black card, telling the manager he was buying the entire store for his future wife.

I retreated into the shadows behind a silk display, my heart hammering against my ribs. I wanted to disappear.

But Gia marched straight to the front desk, slamming her designer bag onto the marble counter.

"That girl hiding in the corner," she demanded loudly. "Have her serve us personally."

The boutique manager, pale with panic, rushed over to intervene. "She’s only hired for administrative work," she explained nervously.

Gia narrowed her eyes, putting on her boss’s-daughter attitude. "Step aside. Or I’ll break your fingers."

I had no choice but to step out from behind the display.

My eyes met Falco’s.

I saw a flash of pain in his deep eyes—or maybe I imagined it—before it instantly turned distant and icy.

He stepped forward, looking me up and down, a mocking smile on his lips. He laughed out loud in front of the staff. "The scammer reappears. It’s a miracle, isn't it?"

His tone was dripping with sarcasm. "How does a woman supposedly on her deathbed suddenly have the energy to hustle in a high-end boutique?"

He sneered. "Here to hook a rich sponsor to fund your next con?"

Gia laughed.

She picked up a steaming hot espresso from the hospitality counter and took a step toward me. Her thumb rubbed the edge of the paper cup, bending the thin rim slightly.

Suddenly, she let out an exaggerated gasp. She shoved the cup forward.

The boiling black coffee splashed across my chest.

The heat felt alive, burning through my thin uniform shirt, raising blisters the second it hit my skin.

Gia feigned surprise, covering her mouth with her hand.

She pulled a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills from her bag and tossed them onto the floor at my feet.

"To cover your ruined shirt," she said.

Then, she casually poured the rest of the hot coffee over my head.

The scalding dark liquid dripped down my cheeks, stinging my eyes, soaking my hair.

I stood frozen, numb.

Falco was completely indifferent to her cruelty.

He pulled Gia close, wrapping an arm around her waist in a protective embrace.

He stared dead at me.

"The sight of you makes me sick," he told me.

He looked down at the pile of cash on the floor. With the absolute authority of a Godfather, he issued his final order:

"You can keep the money. If you bow to Gia a hundred times as an apology."