Chapter 28
28
NICOLAS
The second Aria steps out of the room, I open my eyes.
I listen to the sound of her footsteps fading, the quiet click of the front door closing behind her, and then the low hum of the car as it disappears into the night. I don’t move. I don’t stop her.
I told my men earlier that if she wanted to leave, they should let her—no questions, no hesitation.
Now, she’s gone.
I sit up slowly, running a hand through my hair. My body aches, but none of it compares to the tightness in my chest. The empty space beside me feels colder than ever. Her scent still lingers in the sheets, in the air, wrapping around me like a ghost of what was. I exhale sharply.
I could go after her, find her, and bring her back. It wouldn’t take much. She left in one of my cars. She doesn’t know how to disappear.
But I need her to choose me.
I need her to choose this life.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and the cold floor sends a shiver up my spine. The room is too quiet, the kind of silence that settles deep in your bones. My eyes drift to the dresser, to the small gap in the closet where the few clothes she packed used to be.
She didn’t take much, so she’s not planning to be gone forever.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I can’t sleep, and the day passes in a blur.
I go through the motions—checking in with my men, reviewing shipments, and signing off on deals. Matteo updates me on the final territory changes after Marco’s downfall. He tells me Marco has booked a flight out of the city, but I don’t care.
I eat, but the food is tasteless. I drink, but it does nothing to quench the feeling of emptiness.
Everything feels distant.
Every time my hand drifts to my phone, I shove it back into my pocket. She needs space. I remind myself of that. I tell myself I won’t chase her.
And yet, it’s the hardest decision I’ve ever made.
I sent my men to keep an eye on her to ensure she’s safe and out of harm's way. That’s how I know she’s staying at a hotel and that she spent the afternoon at the bank inquiring about her accounts.
If it’s money she’s worried about, she shouldn’t be. I deposited a substantial amount when we married and will continue to give her more.
But that’s not what unsettles me. It’s not just about her being safe or financially secure. I don’t want her just surviving.
I want her with me. In my arms. As my wife.
And I need her to choose that.
A week passes, and I use the time to tie loose ends. I clear out the last of the Caldarone family and secure their territories under my control.
Tonight, I’m expected to attend an event hosted in my honor by one of the city’s most influential mafia families. I’m not the least bit excited.
At the far end of the lavish room, Chris De Luca stands with a practiced smile, arms spread in welcome. Unlike the Caldarones, he was smart enough to bend the knee rather than meet their fate.
“Nicolas,” he calls out, his voice warm—too warm. “Welcome! Tonight, we celebrate our new friendship.”
The room quiets. Conversations fade. All eyes turn toward me.
A server materializes at my elbow with a tray of aged Scotch—my preferred drink. Chris has done his homework. I take a glass, but don’t drink.
“Thank you for the hospitality,” I say, my voice measured.
Even as I speak, my gaze sweeps the room. Old habits die hard—I always assess every exit, every face. There are about two dozen people here, and all of them are watching us.
Chris launches into a speech, his tone smooth, practiced. “After the unfortunate demise of the Caldarone family and the, ah, transition of power in our region, we are eager to pledge our loyalty to the Paolo family.”
Unfortunate demise. A polite way to describe the bloodbath I unleashed. My jaw tenses at the mention of them, but I keep my expression neutral.
Chris continues, listing his assets—informants, smuggling routes—laying out his worth. He’s proving he’s an ally, not a threat. I nod occasionally, my face unreadable, my mind dissecting every word, every offer.
With the Caldarones eliminated and Marco Rossi—my own brother-in-law—forced into submission, I hold more power than anyone in this room.
A month ago, they were all waiting to see who would come out on top.
Now, they know.
He gives a small bow when he finishes speaking. For a heartbeat, I picture Aria’s face—but I force the thought aside, lifting my chin.
“Your offer of alliance is heard,” I say, my voice even. “Loyalty is a two-way street. Those who remain faithful will find me generous.” I pause, allowing a cold smile to flicker at the edges of my lips. “And I never forget those who betray my trust.”
Chris’s smile falters—just for a second—before he clears his throat and gestures to the side. “Allow me to introduce my family.”
At the signal, three younger figures step forward from the crowd.
“These are my children,” he continues smoothly. “Each of them brings a valuable skill to our operations.” He rests a hand on the shoulder of the tallest—a broad-shouldered man in his thirties, with a shaved head and a scar running across his jaw. “This is Luca, my eldest. He has led our security team for a decade.”
Next, he gestures to a poised woman with sharp eyes. “My daughter, Sofia. She manages our finances and… diplomacy.”
Finally, his hand settles on a younger man's shoulder who lingers half-hidden behind his siblings.
The youngest steps forward hesitantly. He’s mid-twenties at most—lean, lanky, with ink creeping above his collar. His hair is artfully messy, streaked with color, and his fingers are adorned with rings and smudged with ink.
Chris chuckles, clapping him on the back. “And this is my youngest, Enzo. Our artist. A truly gifted tattooist.”
Enzo offers a sheepish smile. A faded snake tattoo coils up his forearm where his sleeve is rolled. Unbidden, my mind conjures the image of Aria’s delicate wrist, imagining it adorned with ink. I recall how her fingers traced the designs on my skin, curiosity in her touch.
I turn to Chris, my decision made. “I’d like to borrow your son’s talents. Send him to my residence in the morning.”
Chris brightens. “Of course, Nicolas. He’ll be there, first thing.”
Enzo nods quickly, his eager expression betraying a mix of nerves and intrigue.
The corners of my mouth lift in the barest hint of a grin. “Good.” I down the rest of my Scotch in one swallow and set the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. The rest of the evening fades into blur.
Enzo arrives at my mansion early the next morning, clutching a black case of supplies in his hand. He hesitates for a beat before stepping inside, his voice echoing slightly beneath the vaulted ceilings. “Mr. Nicolas. G-good morning.”
I nod. “Morning.” With a quick wave, I dismiss the security detail.
I lead him to a quiet room and unfasten the top buttons of my shirt, shrugging it off one shoulder. The fabric slides down, exposing my left upper arm and part of my chest. Enzo’s eyebrows lift slightly when he realizes I intend to get ink there. He doesn’t comment, but his gaze flickers briefly to the scar running along my ribs before he looks away. A good artist notices details—but a smart man knows when to keep quiet.
I settle into a chair, watching as he pulls on a pair of latex gloves.
“I want a name,” I say quietly. “Aria.”
Enzo nods, carefully unpacking his tools. His hands' steady, practiced rhythm should be reassuring, but my thoughts drift elsewhere. Minutes pass in silence before he steps closer.
“Where exactly would you like it, sir?”
I turn my head and see him holding a semi-transparent sheet with ‘Aria’ written in a graceful script. My chest tightens at the sight of her name, even just handwritten. I tap my left chest, just below the collarbone, over my heart. “Here,” I say.
Enzo nods and presses the stencil gently against my skin. The first touch of the needle sends a sharp burn across the outline of the initial letter. I inhale slowly through my nose, fixing my gaze on the ceiling.
The pain is nothing at first—a dull sting, a sensation I’ve grown used to. But when he starts shading the curves of the ‘r’ and ‘i,’ the burn intensifies. I welcome it. I let it consume everything else. Pain is simple. Pain, I understand.
I don’t know how to process the other sensations clawing at me—regret, longing, the quiet fury at myself. So I submerge them into the bite of the needle. Each time it digs in, I tell myself, This is for her . Again: I’m sorry. Again: I miss you . Again: I love you .
Over and over, until the words blur into the pain and all that remains is a silent snarl in my chest.
At last, the tattoo machine whirs to silence.
“All done,” Enzo says quietly.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “Matteo will reach out to you about-”
I don’t get to finish before the door swings open. One of my guards steps in.
“It’s just a mail courier, boss,” he says.
I frown. “Let him in.”
The guard pulls the door open, and a mailman steps inside, eyes darting nervously between me and the armed presence at his side. He swallows hard, fumbling into his satchel before pulling out the envelope.
“Delivery for, um, Nicolas Paolo,” he announces, trying to sound professional, but the slight quiver in his voice betrays him. He knows who I am. Or maybe it’s just the weight of the room pressing down on him.
I barely register his unease—my attention is locked onto the envelope. Thick. Cream-colored. A legal firm’s logo printed neatly in the corner.
I take it from his hands, and he steps back quickly, like he can’t get rid of it fast enough. “Sign here, please,” he says, offering a clipboard and pen.
I scrawl my name without looking, my eyes never leaving that envelope.
The mailman murmurs a quick thanks before turning on his heel and bolting from the room. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.
I just stare at the envelope in my hands for a long moment. My name is printed in crisp black ink across the front. And below it-
Aria’s name.
Her maiden name.
And the name of her family’s lawyer.
The guard and Enzo step out, leaving me alone with the envelope that suddenly feels heavier in my hands.
I slide my fingers under the sealed flap, tearing it open with deliberate slowness. The crisp paper inside rustles as I unfold it, my eyes scanning the first line.
And then I see it.
Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.