Chapter 5 - The Night the Mafia Boss Chose His Enemy's Daughter
Victor carried me out of the burning apartment building.
I told him I could walk.
He ignored me.
I told him his stitches might reopen.
He ignored that too.
I told him I hated him.
That made him stop.
Not completely.
Just for one second.
His arms tightened around me.
“I know,” he said.
Then he kept walking.
By midnight, I was back at the Sabatini estate.
But something had changed.
The guards no longer watched me like a prisoner.
They watched the gates.
The windows.
The roads.
Every shadow beyond the property.
Victor had ordered a full lockdown.
This time, I understood why.
Dr. Harris examined my cuts and bruises.
Nothing broken.
A mild concussion was possible, so he gave instructions for monitoring symptoms.
Victor stood near the door throughout the examination.
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
When the doctor finished, I looked at him.
“You can stop staring.”
“No.”
“Victor.”
He crossed the room.
His face was pale beneath the dark stubble.
“You almost died.”
“I noticed.”
“I sent you home.”
“I asked to go.”
“And someone tried to murder you.”
I looked at him.
“Your father.”
The words struck like a slap.
Victor turned away.
For a long moment, I thought he wouldn't answer.
Then he whispered, “Yes.”
The next morning, Victor called a meeting.
Rocco.
Teresa.
Dr. Harris.
Three senior members of his organization.
And me.
I sat at the long dining table wearing borrowed jeans and a sweatshirt.
My apartment was gone.
My sewing machine was gone.
My photographs.
My books.
Everything I'd spent years collecting.
All destroyed.
Victor stood at the head of the table.
“From this moment forward, no one follows orders from my father.”
One of the older men shifted.
“Boss, your father built—”
“My father tried to kill a twenty-four-year-old woman.”
Silence.
“He lied about his death. He used my men. He financed attacks against my household.”
Victor looked around.
“Anyone who still considers him the head of this family can leave now.”
Nobody moved.
Then a gray-haired captain named Dominic Russo stood.
“With respect, Victor, you're choosing a Falcone over your own blood.”
Victor's expression hardened.
“Sit down.”
Dominic didn't.
“The Falcones murdered your mother.”
Victor placed the faded note on the table.
“My mother said otherwise.”
Dominic stared at it.
“Could be forged.”
“It's her handwriting.”
“People can imitate handwriting.”
Victor slowly approached him.
“Then we'll investigate.”
Dominic looked toward me.
“You're making a mistake.”
Victor's voice dropped.
“No. My mistake was trusting the people who told me who my enemies were.”
Dominic's jaw tightened.
Then he walked out.
Rocco followed him with his eyes.
I noticed.
And so did Victor.
That afternoon, I found Victor in the library.
He was staring at an old photograph.
Two women stood beneath a flowering tree.
One wore a pale-blue dress.
The other held a baby.
I recognized the pendant around the second woman's neck.
My pendant.
I stopped breathing.
“Is that her?”
Victor looked up.
Then handed me the photograph.
“Marcella Falcone.”
My mother.
She had dark curls.
Warm brown eyes.
A smile that looked painfully familiar.
She was holding a little girl.
Me.
I touched the image.
My fingers trembled.
For eighteen years, I had wondered whether my mother loved me.
Now I was looking at proof that she had once held me close.
“She looks happy,” I whispered.
Victor nodded.
“She was.”
I looked at the other woman.
“Your mother?”
“Isabella.”
They were smiling together.
Not enemies.
Friends.
I stared at the photograph.
“What happened to them?”
Victor looked toward the fireplace.
“I intend to find out.”
That evening, I went to the tailoring studio.
The room smelled like new fabric and machine oil.
I found a fresh bolt of pale-blue silk on the table.
Beside it was a note.
I know it isn't hers. But maybe we can make something new.
No signature.
None needed.
I sat.
And cried.
Then I picked up the fabric.
For the first time since my apartment exploded, I wanted to sew.
Victor arrived an hour later.
I was cutting the first panel of a new shirt.
He stood in the doorway.
“May I come in?”
I looked up.
“You own the house.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Something softened inside me.
“Yes.”
He entered.
His gaze moved over the fabric.
“You're working.”
“Apparently.”
He approached the table.
“What are you making?”
“A shirt.”
“For me?”
“Don't get excited.”
He smiled faintly.
I kept cutting.
After a moment, he said, “I'm sorry.”
I stopped.
“For what?”
“Taking you from your job. Buying the shop without asking. Making decisions about your life.”
I looked at him.
He continued.
“I thought keeping you close meant keeping you safe.”
“And now?”
“Now I understand that protecting someone doesn't give you the right to own them.”
I swallowed.
“That's a good start.”
He nodded.
“I've transferred Lombardi's back to Mr. Lombardi. The purchase was reversed. He can reopen when repairs are complete.”
I stared.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it was yours before I interfered.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I said, “You still owe me a new sewing machine.”
His mouth curved.
“I'll buy you ten.”
“One.”
“Three.”
“Victor.”
“Two. Final offer.”
I laughed.
He looked at me as though the sound meant something.
Something dangerous.
Something neither of us was ready to name.
At eleven that night, I found him standing on the terrace.
The sky was dark.
The air smelled of rain.
He wore the gray shirt.
My stitching.
His mother's silk.
I stepped beside him.
“Does it still help?”
He nodded.
“More than you know.”
We stood quietly.
Then I asked, “Did you really hate my family?”
Victor looked toward the trees.
“Yes.”
The honesty hurt.
“Do you still?”
He turned toward me.
“No.”
“Why?”
His eyes searched mine.
“Because I finally met someone who taught me that what I was told isn't always the truth.”
I looked down.
He stepped closer.
Not touching.
Not demanding.
Just waiting.
“Tessa.”
I looked up.
“If you ever decide to leave this house, I won't stop you.”
My throat tightened.
“And if I stay?”
His expression softened.
“Then I hope it's because you want to.”
For one suspended moment, I thought he might kiss me.
I wanted him to.
That frightened me more than anything.
Then his phone rang.
Rocco.
Victor answered.
His expression changed immediately.
“What?”
A pause.
Then he looked at me.
Rocco's voice was loud enough for me to hear.
“We found Dominic Russo.”
Victor's jaw tightened.
“Where?”
“At the old Falcone property.”
Another pause.
“He's dead, boss.”
Victor closed his eyes.
Rocco continued.
“And there's something else.”
“What?”
“We found a woman in the basement.”
I grabbed Victor's arm.
Rocco's voice shook.
“She says her name is Marcella Falcone.”
The world tilted.
May you like
My mother.
Alive.
