This was all my fault—a consequence I could never outrun or justify, no matter how desperately I wished I could turn back time.
Every bit of it—her heartbreak, our ruined future—stemmed from my recklessness.
For as long as I lived, I would never forget the sorrow, the look in her eyes when I told her what I had done—betraying her trust in a moment of weakness that cost us everything. The devastation in her gaze was a punishment I knew I’d bear forever. She would never forgive me, and she had every right to turn away. Slumped and broken on the floor, I tried to choke back the tears, but they spilled relentlessly down my face, a bitter testament to the destruction I’d caused.
I was the bastard she believed me to be—a man unworthy of her love or forgiveness—and I could do nothing but accept the truth.
“Massimo.” Guilio’s voice, a low rumble, broke through the cacophony of my self-recrimination. His hand, heavy and warm, settled on my shoulder. I flinched, bracing for the accusation, his righteous anger I knew I deserved. But his touch was not scorn; it was... concern. And that felt like a betrayal of a different kind, a painful reminder of a love I had so carelessly discarded, a love I would never again be worthy of. I wanted to push him away, to scream that he couldn’t understand, that he shouldn’t pity me, but my words caught in my throat, choked by my own damnable failure. I had been given a chance, a sacred trust, and I had failed. Miserably.
And the worst part? I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that the choices I made would haunt me until my dying day—the choice that had irrevocably broken not just the love of my life, but myself as well.
In the days that followed, I sank deep into a pitiful depression that not even my brothers could pull me out of. I didn’t care about anything anymore, just the drink in my hand.I haunted the empty corridors of my family house like a ghost, each echo of her laughter ricocheting off the walls and stabbing me with regret. Sleep eluded me, and when I drifted off, I woke gasping from nightmares filled with her absence, her voice drifting further and further away with each passing night. My days blurred together, heavy with the ache of memories I could never reclaim, and all I could do was mourn the life I destroyed with my own hands.
Nothing mattered to me anymore—not my brothers’ anxious whispers from the hallway, not the suffocating weight of our so-called vendetta, not even the hollow ache of my guilt. All that remained was the relentless throb in my chest and the numbnessspreading through my limbs, anchoring me to the edge of my unmade bed. The air was stale with liquor and regret. Shadows pooled in the corners, swallowing the few remnants of warmth the room once held. I stared into the dark, my eyes burning, shoulders hunched as if I could fold into myself and disappear.
The door creaked open, slivering pale hallway light across the threadbare rug. Dread twisted in my gut—a silent plea for solitude—but I couldn’t even muster the energy to turn my head. “Get out,” I slurred, every word scraping up my raw throat, thick with the taste of whiskey and defeat.
Milo lingered in the doorway, his usual confidence replaced by hesitation, as if he was weighing whether to risk my wrath or deliver his message. The tension in his shoulders was visible even in the dim light, his loyalty and concern a bitter reminder of everything I could no longer accept.
“Boss, I need to tell you something.” His voice was lower than usual—gentle, almost apologetic. My skin prickled, the room suddenly too small, suffocating with the pressure of unsaid things.
“I don’t fucking care,” I roared, rage erupting before I could choke it down. My hand trembled as I hurled the glass tumbler, the crash echoing like a gunshot, sharp and final. Milo ducked instinctively—he knew me too well, had seen too many storms. The shards of glass sparkled on the floor between us, marking the distance I’d forced upon everyone. My breaths came ragged, chest tight, the aching silence settling once more—a chasm neither of us could cross.
The silence between us was weighted, pressing down in the aftermath of my outburst. For a moment, Milo remained in the threshold, his eyes flashing with hurt I pretended not to see. I let my head fall into my hands, defeated by the truth that even among those who cared, I was unreachable—a man stranded by his own mistakes, shunning every lifeline thrown his way.
Guilio thrust the door open, his jaw set. “You need to hear what Milo has to say,” he insisted, voice cutting through the gloom. His eyes locked on mine—a warning, a plea. I felt my chest tighten, a cold ripple of dread twisting deeper.
“I don’t care,” I snapped, the words coming out brittle, almost desperate. My hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening as if I could choke off the pain that kept rising.
Guilio didn’t flinch. He stepped into the room, the tension in his shoulders palpable. “Yes, you do. You need to.” He turned, voice hardening. “Milo—tell him. Now.”
Milo lingered at the threshold, nerves flickering across his face. Steeling himself, he edged closer, eyes darting between Guilio and me. “Mrs. Vitale asked me for a favor. I didn’t think much of it—I’ve always been loyal to the family. But when I started digging, I found something... strange.”
My head snapped up, suspicion prickling my skin. “What the hell are you talking about, Milo?” My voice was low, but my heart hammered in my chest, every pulse a warning.
Milo swallowed, glancing at Guilio for support. “It’s about Oliver Thorpe. Her friend.”
I tried to mask the jolt of fear, but my voice cracked. “What about him?”
Milo squared his shoulders. “He was the one who ordered the hit at the restaurant. Not Barbari. It was Oliver.”
A chill shot through me. I rose too fast, blood rushing to my head. Milo pressed on as Luca and Emanuelle slipped inside, their faces tight. My room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in around me. My mind reeled. For a moment, all I could do was stare, my heart hammering in my chest, blood roaring in my ears. I must have misheard. Before I could speak, Milo barreled on, as if afraid I’d cut him off.
“Mrs. Vitale told me Oliver was being blackmailed—there was a video, apparently. She wanted my help. So, I tried trackingdown Oliver’s supposed ex, a man named Kendrick Jones, to negotiate for the video.” Milo paused, glancing at all of us, his brow furrowing. “But Kendrick Jones doesn’t exist. The address Mrs. Vitale gave me was empty, never even rented. The building manager swore up and down that he never rented the apartment to anyone by that name.”
Luca’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tight. “So Oliver lied about his boyfriend. Why go to all that trouble?”
Guilio raised a hand, halting the confusion with a look. “Because Oliver needed a cover story. By inventing Kendrick Jones, he made his lies harder to trace.”
Milo nodded, his lips pressed thin. “That’s right. And as I dug deeper, I found out why. Oliver Thorpe was involved with Katherine Barbari. They weren’t just acquaintances; they were lovers. I found letters, text messages, emails—all of it. They’d been planning to run away together for months. But everything changed when Leviticus Barbari forced his daughter, Katherine, to sleep with you.” Milo glanced at me, sympathy flickering across his face.
My breath caught. A cold weight settled in my stomach. My mind clawed through memories, finding new context in old words and glances. “So they blamed me. And they blamed Barbari. That’s why Oliver was always so hostile toward me, and when I married Miranda, I handed them the perfect way to destroy us both.” My voice sounded raw, even to my own ears.
Milo’s voice softened. “Yes, sir.”
Emanuelle broke the heavy silence, his voice sharp as glass. “Where is Oliver now?”
“He’s in Tennessee. With Mrs. Vitale.” Milo’s answer hung in the tense air, the implications swirling between us, settling like ash on everything we thought we knew.
