Chapter 3

Gianna Vitiello POV:

The air in the penthouse still carried his scent. Cedarwood and expensive scotch.

It was supposed to be our sanctuary. We had closed on it six months ago-the top floor, commanding the Chicago skyline.

I had hand-picked the Calacatta marble for the counters. I had chosen the silk drapes. Now, I was here to gut it.

"Take the paintings," I directed the movers, my voice flat. "Clear the furniture in the master bedroom. And burn the mattress."

I stood in the center of the living room, clutching a crystal tumbler of water. My grip was white-knuckled, but my hand was steady. I needed to be hollow. If I let myself feel, I would shatter.

The private elevator chimed.

The doors slid open, and Luca stepped out. He wasn't alone; two of his soldiers flanked him, but he waved them off the moment he saw me.

"What are you doing?" he asked. His gaze swept over the chaos, landing on the boxes strictly labeled 'Vitiello'.

"Evicting myself," I said. I set the glass down on a side table that was already tagged for removal. "Unless you want to buy me out? But we both know your liquidity is tied up in your new... family expenses."

He walked toward me, looking like a man who was drowning but trying to convince himself he was swimming. The exhaustion was etched into every line of his face.

"Gianna, please," he rasped. "I didn't want this."

"You walked out of the church, Luca. You made your choice."

"I couldn't let her grow up like I did," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "You know what this world does to bastards. You saw how they treated me. I couldn't condemn my little girl to that life. Elena threatened to go to the Commission with proof of paternity. They would have blacklisted the kid before she even started kindergarten."

"So you saved the child," I said, cold as ice. "And in the process, you destroyed me."

"I love you," he whispered. He reached for me.

I didn't flinch. I let his fingers graze my arm. The touch that used to set my skin on fire now felt cold. Clammy. Wrong.

"Don't lie to me," I said.

"It's not a lie. I married her for the paper. For the name. It means nothing."

"It means everything!" I screamed. My composure snapped. The rage that had been simmering in my gut for weeks finally boiled over. "You humiliated me! You made me a joke to the entire outfit! You chose a whore over a Vitiello!"

I swung my hand.

Crack.

The slap echoed through the empty apartment like a gunshot. My palm stung violently. His head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming instantly on his high cheekbone.

He didn't move. He didn't strike back. As a Made Man, he could have killed me for laying a hand on him. But he stood there, taking it. Accepting his penance.

He looked back at me, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Sorry doesn't fix honor, Luca," I spat. "And it doesn't pay debts."

I brushed past him, marching to the elevator and jamming the button.

"Keep the apartment," I said, refusing to look back as the doors slid shut. "It's haunted anyway."