Page 65 of The Ruin I Chose

Antonio studied me for a moment. Then nodded once.

“Ci pigliamu ‘stu bastardu schifusu.”

(We’ll get that sleazy bastard.)

After going over our game plan for the meeting and the best route to deliver the goods, he walked out with Santino.

I sat there, letting the silence settle like fallout. I poured myself a drink. The cigarette burned between my fingers—twitching with the need to steady themselves.

I’d started smoking again after Roxanne left. It was like part of my resolve had gone with her. I let the smoke burn through the ache in my chest. Exhaling slowly. Watching it curl towards the ceiling.

I opened the drawer. The blue velvet box sat inside—her letter tucked beneath it. I picked it up. I hadn’t read it. Not yet. Even touching it felt like betrayal—of my anger, of my pride and I dreaded it.

Antonio had insisted a hundred times. But I couldn’t bring myself to open it. Still, I hadn’t thrown it away. Despite the anger. Despite the betrayal.

I took a deep breath. And opened it. I read the letter.

My heart pounded so hard I thought it might split open.

The world numbed. Her words weren’t just ink. They were knives.

Each sentence cut deeper, hitting places I thought were long dead.

Then read it again. I reread every word. Slowly. Like scripture. Like a wound being opened again.

To Marcello,

I don’t know how to begin this, so I’ll start with the truth…

I lied to you.

Not with words, but with silence. I let you believe I was someone I wasn’t, and I let myself believe I could be that woman—just for a little while.

You already know I have a daughter. She’s the reason I breathe, the reason I fight, the reason I took this time for myself.

I was in a marriage that had long stopped feeling like love. The conversations were hollow, the silences louder than ever. But I stayed for her. Not for him. Not for the vows. Just for the one person who still made me feel like I mattered.

I should have told you sooner. I should have trusted you with that part of me. But I was afraid. Afraid that once you saw the full picture, you’d turn away. And maybe I was right.

You made me feel seen. Desired. And for ten days, I let myself live in a world where I wasn’t just a mother, or a wife, or someone who was trying to hold on to her sanity.

I was just… me. And you made that version of me feel beautiful.

I didn’t come to Italy with the intention of finding someone. Someone who could make me forget the weight I carried.

I came to escape. To breathe. To remember who I was before everything got so heavy that it became difficult to breathe.

And then you happened.

I know you’re angry. I know you feel betrayed.

But please know this: I never used you. I never played you.

I just didn’t know how to tell you that the woman you let into your world, introduced to your family, was already claimed by a life she didn’t know how to leave.

You said I was real. And I was. With you, I was more real than I’ve been in years.

I’m leaving the necklace with this letter. Not because I don’t want it. But because I want you to know that what I valued most wasn’t the emeralds—it was the way you looked at me when you offered them.