The Woman Who Left the Mafia Boss Behind

Selina's POV

I was a fashion designer by profession. For years, I had personally designed suits, dresses, and formalwear for Lorenzo and occasionally for his sister whenever she attended high-profile events. But the moment he made that request, I knew—deep down—that the dresses he wanted weren’t meant for his sister at all.

Keeping my voice controlled and distant, I replied, “There’s no way I can finish two dresses by tonight.”

He let out a breath, clearly annoyed. “Then when?”

I met his gaze briefly. “By tomorrow morning. I’ll need to go out and purchase the fabrics first.”

Some of the tension left his shoulders. He nodded, then reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a thick stack of bills. “Use this.”

I accepted the cash, slipped it into my purse, and closed it.

Just then, his phone began ringing. Without hesitation, he answered it while already heading toward the door.

That wasn’t lost on me.

Lorenzo never answered my calls anymore. In fact, throughout the years we’d been together, I could count on one hand the number of times he had picked up when I called.

A bitter voice echoed in my mind—my own thoughts turning sharp and cruel.

He’s already letting go.

I steadied myself, inhaled deeply, then went to the bathroom to wash the heaviness off my face.

---

The following day, I was in the living room finishing a late lunch when my phone buzzed. It was a message in the WhatsApp group chat—one that included Lorenzo, Francesca, Zed, and me.

[Selina, the dresses are stunning.] Lorenzo wrote.

A second message followed almost immediately.

[They’re absolutely gorgeous! Honestly, I’d never trust myself buying something like this. I’d get ripped off in a boutique. Lorenzo insists I let you handle these things for me.] Francesca added, overflowing with praise.

So there it was.

The dresses were for her all along.

And yet he had let me believe otherwise.

I typed back a single word.

[Alright.]

A moment later, Francesca sent another message.

[I’m wearing one tonight for a friend’s gathering. You should stop by too—it’s only a few houses down, on the balcony.]

Lorenzo replied quickly.

[There’s no reason for you to come.]

I was about to mute the conversation when a private message popped up—from Francesca.

[I’m craving chicken wings. Grab some on your way here.]

I stared at the screen in disbelief.

Designing her dresses wasn’t enough—I was expected to act like her personal assistant too?

I scoffed quietly, shaking my head, but I went anyway.

---

Thirty minutes later, I stepped into the house where the party was being held. Music thundered from the speakers, people moved in clusters, drinks in hand.

I headed straight for the balcony.

Lorenzo and Francesca were seated at a table meant for four—but they were the only ones there. Their chairs were so close their shoulders nearly touched.

He was looking at her the way he used to look at me.

My footsteps caught their attention.

Lorenzo’s expression hardened instantly, his jaw tightening as though he was forcing himself to stay calm.

Francesca, on the other hand, smiled brightly. “You came.”

Lorenzo shot her a sharp look. “I told you she didn’t need to.”

Francesca lifted her hands innocently. “My fault. I asked her to bring me food.”

Lorenzo immediately reached for her hands, lowering them gently. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said softly. “Relax.”

Always her side.

Never mine.

I reminded myself why I was there.

Pulling out the folded document from my bag, I held it out. “I didn’t come for the party. I need a signature.”

He glanced at the paper, brows drawing together. “What is it?”

“It’s for a transfer,” I said evenly. “A friend of mine is moving to another syndicate to be with her partner. I’d appreciate it if you signed.”

He hesitated for a second, then took the document.

“Just sign it,” I added quietly.

Without reading a single line, he scribbled his name and shoved it back toward me.

Relief washed over me as I took it.

Freedom was finally within reach.

“That’s it?” he asked coldly. “You interrupted us for paperwork?”

“Yes,” I answered simply.

His lips curled in irritation as he turned away, clearly disgusted.

Francesca tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Your wrist tattoo—it looks exactly like the one Lorenzo used to have. He told me he had it removed months ago.”

I looked down.

The ink—Bound Forever—still marked my skin.

I glanced at his wrist. Hers was right. The matching tattoo we’d gotten five years ago was gone.

“It’s just ink,” I replied, my voice steady despite the anger burning in my chest. “You can always get one too, if you want.”

I didn’t wait for her reaction. I turned and walked away.

---

My phone rang.

It was Alec.

I answered immediately. “Hey.”

“Selina,” he said warmly. “How are you? Is Lorenzo treating you well?”

“I’m fine,” I replied softly. “How’s Mom?”

“She’s doing well,” he said, skipping past the question I hadn’t answered. “But she misses you. We all do. You told her you’d be home this week.”

“I will be,” I assured him. “Two days.”

He didn’t ask why. And I was grateful.

When the call ended, footsteps approached.

Lorenzo stood behind me.

“Let’s stay here tonight,” he said, already turning toward the stairs.

I didn’t understand why—our mansion was minutes away—but I followed.

---

I woke up alone.

The clock read 1:00 p.m.

The door opened and Lorenzo walked in, looking unusually calm.

“I prepared lunch,” he said. “Something special. Come eat.”

I said nothing, got out of bed, and followed him downstairs—already knowing that nothing about this was going to change what had been broken.