I met her eyes, and for one moment, I let her see the steel beneath my surface—the steel that three years of silence and neglect had forged.
"I hope you enjoy my leftovers."
I stood and walked toward the payment counter, my heels clicking against the marble with a finality that felt like freedom.
"Miss Mancini!"
She shot up and grabbed my right hand from behind.
My right hand—the one that had been crushed in the accident she had caused. The one that would never hold a scalpel again.
Her grip sent pain lancing through me so sharp I nearly lost my footing. White spots danced across my vision.
I wrenched free.
Thud.
She stumbled back into the railing, her performance of fragility suddenly very real.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a familiar figure.
Nico.
He emerged from the shadows of the corridor like a specter—tall, dark-suited, his face carved from the same cold marble as the floors beneath our feet. He rushed over and steadied Massima, his hands gentle on her arms in a way they had never been gentle with me.
"Nico, it's fine, really." Her voice was soft as velvet. "I'm not that fragile—I just lost my balance."
She pressed herself against him, and I watched his expression shift. The ice in his eyes thawed, just slightly, just for her.
I paused.
I didn't want to deal with this. I kept walking.
The next second—
Crack.
A slap struck my face, hard.
The sound echoed through the clinic corridor like a gunshot.
Patients and staff turned to stare—soldiers, associates, made men who had seen violence that would haunt ordinary people's nightmares. And yet they stared at this, at the Young Don striking his blood-bound wife in public.
I pressed my hand to my right cheek.
It burned.
He seemed to freeze for a moment, his hand still raised. He looked at his own palm as if he didn't recognize it.
Then his expression went cold again, colder than before, as if the brief flash of humanity had been a mistake he needed to correct.
"Apologize."
Those two words were meant for me.
I almost laughed.
Every time he spoke. Every time he actually said something to me—broke his precious silence to address me directly.
It was always about Massima.
What did she have that I didn't? What magic did she possess that could unlock his voice, his tenderness, his humanity?
But it didn't matter anymore.
None of it mattered.
"Nico! How could you hit Miss Mancini!"
Massima grabbed his arm, her eyes wide with manufactured horror.