Elena had prepared this gift, waiting for our anniversary. She'd imagined us embracing somewhere, celebrating our six months together. She'd poured countless hours and hope into this wallet, expecting it to be treasured.
And what the fuck was I doing? I was with another woman, betraying our love for family interests.
I slipped the wallet into my jacket pocket, close to my heart. Then I pulled out my phone and called her number.
A cold mechanical voice informed me her phone was off. I called again and again. Same result, same despair. That icy recorded voice was driving me insane.
I texted her: [Elena, text me back. I need to hear from you.]
[Please, let me explain.]
[I'll handle everything. Give me time.]
[I love you, Elena.]
All messages vanished into silence. Elena was gone, completely gone. I forced myself to calm down and dialed another number.
"Boss?" Artyom's voice came through.
"Find her now. Elena Jensen. Where did she go? Check her credit cards, phone records, surveillance footage—everything!"
"Yes! How many men do you need?" He grasped the urgency immediately.
"Everyone! Use every resource we have!" I hung up, unconsciously gripping the phone harder.
Where would Elena go? Would she come back? Or had she given up on me completely, deciding to disappear from my life forever? These questions screamed in my head as my sanity crumbled piece by piece.
Artyom's report shattered my last hope. They'd pulled surveillance from across the city—airports, train stations, bus terminals—investigating Elena's movements from every angle. They checked her credit records, traced her last phone signal. But every effort pointed to thesame conclusion. Elena had vanished. Her trail had been deliberately erased.
"FUCK!" I roared, hurling my phone against the wall. The screen shattered, parts scattering across the floor.
The apartment fell into dead silence, only my ragged breathing echoing in the air.
Chapter Eight
Elena
Tuscany evenings were always this gentle.
I stood in the small kitchen of my apartment, watching the sky darken outside while stirring the tomato sauce in the pot. The air was filled with the scent of basil and garlic—this was Marco's simple pasta sauce recipe, the one he said came from his grandmother.
One month. I'd been running from New York for a full month. Running from that snowy night, from that damn engagement banquet, from Igor and those deep green eyes that I'd once thought were full of love. I'd even changed my phone number to make sure I could start fresh.
The doorbell rang.
"Come in, it's unlocked!" I called toward the door, turning down the heat so the sauce wouldn't burn.
The door opened and Marco walked in, carrying a bag.
Orange sunset streamed in behind him, outlining his lean frame. He wore a simple white shirt and dark jeans today, sleeves casually rolled to his elbows, revealing his smooth forearms. Brown hair fell messily across his forehead, tired from work but not diminishing that warm quality he possessed.
He was completely different from Igor's sharp, aggressive handsomeness. Marco's looks were softer, easier to let your guard down around. About six-one, a few inches shorter than Igor, but that height felt comfortable—no overwhelming sense of being overshadowed.
"I brought bread and wine." He hung his jacket behind the door. "Smells amazing. What are you making?"
"Pasta." I turned back to the stove. "Using your grandmother's recipe. Hope I didn't mess it up."
"Impossible." He came to my side, peering at the sauce in the pot. "Elena, you have magic hands. Whatever you make turns out perfect. Grandma was talking about you this morning—said you're more thoughtful than me, her own grandson."
