Chapter 4 - The BetrayalSophia’s attack escalated the war. The DeLuca syndicate was split: those loyal to Vincent’s honorable rule, and those backing Sophia’s lawless faction.
To keep me safe, Vincent moved me to his private estate in the forested hills outside the city. But the poison was already spreading.
One afternoon, while Vincent was in the city handling the syndicate crisis, a visitor arrived at the estate gates under a white flag of truce.
It was Tyler.
He looked unraveled. His high-end suit was rumpled, his hair messy, his eyes wild with desperation. He was escorted into the parlor by guards who kept their hands on their holsters.
"Emily... please," Tyler begged, dropping to his knees on the Persian rug the moment he saw me. "You have to tell him to stop. He’s ruined me!"
I stood above him, feeling no affection, no anger—only a deep, profound pity for the smallness of the man I used to cry over. "You ruined yourself, Tyler."
"He froze my accounts! Vanessa left me yesterday—she took the ring!" Tyler wailed, reaching out to grasp my hem, but a guard stepped in, pointing a gun at his forehead. Tyler recoiled, crying. "Emily, we were together for three years! You loved me! Tell DeLuca you forgive me! He's using you! Don't you see? He's a monster! He's just using a girl like you to make himself look like a savior!"
His words poked at my deepest, most fragile insecurity. A girl like you.
"Get him out of here," I ordered coldly.
As Tyler was dragged out, he yelled over his shoulder, "Ask him about his dead fiancée, Emily! Ask him why he picked a girl who looks nothing like her!"
The room fell into a suffocating quiet.
When Vincent returned that evening, the snow falling heavily outside, he found me sitting in his library, looking at an old framed newspaper clipping I had found behind a row of books.
Tragic Death of Mafia Heiress Isabella Rossi.
Vincent froze at the doorway. His expression darkened into a mask of pain.
"Tyler said you're using me," I said, my voice breaking. "Isabella was tiny, blonde, perfect. She looked like Vanessa. Am I just a game to you, Vincent? A way to prove you can protect someone you couldn't save back then?"
Vincent walked slowly across the room, kneeling in front of my chair. He gently took the newspaper clipping from my hands and laid it on the desk.
"Isabella was an arranged match made by my father," Vincent said softly, taking both of my trembling hands in his. "I cared for her as a sister, but I never loved her. When she died in the crossfire five years ago, I swore I would never let this life touch anyone I cared about again."
He looked up into my eyes, raw and vulnerable. "I didn't pick you because of Isabella. I spent six months sitting in that restaurant watching a woman who possessed more grace, beauty, and strength in her little finger than all the fake aristocrats of Chicago combined. You made me want to be a better man, Emily. Not a boss. Just a man."
Tears streamed down my cheeks, but this time, they weren't tears of pain. I leaned down and pressed my forehead against his. "I love you, Vincent."
May you like
"I loved you long before I ever dared to touch you," he replied, kissing my fingers.
Our moment was broken by a sudden explosion that rocked the foundations of the mansion.
