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