The air seemed to leave the room all at once. I stared at him, unable to reconcile the Vito I knew—the cunning strategist with the raw vulnerability in front of me now.
“Vito,” I said slowly, “you know I don’t feel the same way.”
Vito’s expression didn’t waver, but I caught a flicker of something in his eyes—disappointment, maybe, or resignation. “I know,” he said quietly, his voice steady.
“I’m not asking you to love me, Celia. I’m asking you to let me love you.”
The silence that followed was deafening. My pulse thundered in my ears as I searched his face, trying to understand why he would willingly walk into this knowing I couldn’t give him what he wanted.
I shook my head, the weight of his confession pressing down on me. “Vito, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to tie yourself to someone who—”
He cut me off with a soft laugh, his eyes glinting with determination and amusement.
“You think I don’t know what I’m getting into? Celia, I’ve seen every side of you—the fire, the fury, the vulnerability you try so hard to hide. And I still choose you.”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs. But before I could respond, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket, shattering the moment.
Vito glanced at the screen, his brows furrowing as his jaw tightened. “Damn it,” he muttered, hitting decline.
“Who was it?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop myself.
