58 | Not the way I want her
The study smells of old leather and cigar smoke, my father's ghost lingering in every corner of this damned room.
The heavy oak desk sits like a throne, its surface scarred from years of deals and blood, and I lean against it, Aurelia's phone burning a hole in my hand.
The video's still fresh in my head, Ciara fucking another man in that filthy motel room.
I keep waiting for it to hurt, for some spark of betrayal or jealousy to ignite, but there's nothing.
Just a cold, jagged ache where my pride used to be, now battered because I let her play me.
Me, Luciano Costa, mafia don, the man who's supposed to see every knife before it's drawn, fooled by a liar with a pretty face.
I'm a fucking idiot, and that stings worse than any bullet.
Ciara's lie was a noose, and I tightened it myself.
She swore she was a virgin, pure, untouchable, and I believed her, believed I had to marry her to save her honor, to keep my title, to satisfy the code my father carved into my bones: Sleep with another man's daughter, you wed her, or you lose everything.
So I did.
I chained myself to her.
But now? Now I know Ciara was never clean, never mine to save. That video stripped her bare, and with it, every obligation I thought I had.
I could walk away.
The marriage to Aurelia, forced to right Ciara's wrongs, it's meaningless now.
I wouldn't lose my crown, my power, for a sin I never committed.
I'm free to cut her loose.
But the mere thought of it rips something open inside me, raw and bleeding.
My hands tremble, the phone shaking in my grip, and I hate how it betrays me, how it shows I'm unraveling.
I don't want to lose her.
I can't lose her.
Aurelia's not just my wife, not just a debt I paid, she's the only thing that keeps the darkness from swallowing me whole.
She doesn't fucking love me, and that truth is a blade lodged in my chest, twisting with every breath.
I pace the room, my feet scuffing the hardwood, the sound too loud in the quiet.
The walls are lined with my father's books, his trophies, his legacy, a kingdom I've fought to hold, but it feels hollow now.
All I can think of is her.
Aurelia is upstairs, probably staring at the ceiling, wondering where I've gone after I took her phone and left her in the dark.
Her eyes, sharp and guarded, the way she flinches when I hold her wrist too tight, the way she stays even when I know she wants to run, it's all I see.
I've never loved before, not Ciara, not anyone.
That word doesn't even fit what I feel for Aurelia.
It's deeper, uglier, a need that claws at my insides until I'm raw.
But it's one-sided, and that kills me.
She's bound to me by obligation, by fear, not by choice, and I'm too selfish, too fucking terrified, to let her go.
Ciara's betrayal doesn't touch me because I never cared about her. I only cared about getting my father's approval.
She was a game I didn't see, a trap I walked into, and I hate myself for it.
I'm a don, a man who's supposed to read every move before it's made, and I let her blind me.
But Aurelia?
She's not a game.
She's real, her anger, her pain, her warmth, her smile, the way she looked at me when I was bleeding out, like she'd fight death itself to keep me breathing.
I'd burn this world down for her, but it's not enough.
It'll never be enough, because she doesn't want me.
My fingers tighten around the phone again, and I force myself to set it down on the desk before I crush it.
My hands won't stop shaking, and I clench them into fists, nails biting my palms until I feel the sting.
I should tell her, tell her the marriage is void, that she's free to leave, to find someone better like Franco or another man.
It's the right thing, the honorable thing.
But all I can think is how empty my world would be without her, her scent on the sheets, her voice cutting through my walls, her pulse under my thumb when I hold her at night.
I'd rather die than face that void.
I'd rather chain her to me, force her to stay, than let her walk away.
It's fucked up, selfish, but I'm not a good man.
I'm hers, whether she wants me or not.
I sink into my father's chair, the leather creaking under me, and stare at the phone like it's a loaded gun.
If I tell her to go, what then?
Will she pack her bags and leave me? Or worse, will she stay out of pity, trapped by the life I've dragged her into?
I can't stand the thought of either.
I want her to choose me, to love me, to look at me and see something worth staying for, but I know better.
My chest aches, a relentless pain that's got nothing to do with the bullet scars still healing under my shirt.
I think of her now, alone in our bed, her hair fanned out, her hands curled like she's bracing for a fight even in sleep.
I should go back, crawl beside her, hold her wrist until the world makes sense again, but I'm frozen here, drowning in the fear that she'll never be mine.
The study feels smaller now, the air too thick to breathe.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and drag my hands through my hair, tugging until it hurts.
I don't know how to do this, how to love her, how to let her go, how to live with the fact that she doesn't feel the same.
All I know is I'm terrified, more than I've ever been, and it's not death I'm afraid of.
It's her absence.
I'd sell my soul to keep her by my side, but souls like mine are already damned.
I grab the phone again, my thumb brushing the screen, and whisper her name like a prayer I don't deserve to say.
"Aurelia."
It's all I will ever get from her, her name and the hold of her wrist.