For years, I had wished for this. For him to send me those numbers, for something so simple and symbolic. I had imagined taking a screenshot, posting it, just once, like everyone else. Just once, to show that I had something real.
But every time I brought it up, he refused.
He didn't like attention.
He didn't want people asking questions.
He didn't want anyone knowing. A Don's private life was a liability, he said. Something rivals could use.
And now… now that I had already decided to let him go, he sent them?
I didn't know if it was guilt. Or habit. Or something else entirely.
I opened his profile without thinking.
The moment it loaded, I froze.
His profile picture had changed.
It was a couple photo.
But not with me.
I didn't hesitate.
I returned both transfers immediately.
A few seconds later, my phone buzzed again.
A string of question marks.
I didn't reply.
When I got back to the apartment, nothing had changed.
Everything was exactly the same as the night of the gala. The same shoes by the door. The same jacket tossed over the chair. The same faint scent lingering in the air, cologne and something sharper beneath it, the ghost of a world where decisions were made in back rooms and sealed with handshakes that could never be taken back.
Which meant one thing.
He hadn't been back.
Not once.
I stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle around me. Then I took a deep breath, pushed down the tight ache rising in my chest, and started packing.
It didn't take long.
Piece by piece, the space began to empty.
Five years.
Five years of a life I had carefully built around him, dismantled in just a few hours.
Most of what I packed were things I had chosen myself.
Couple items.
Matching mugs. Coordinated clothes. Small decorations that hinted at something shared.
Salvatore had never liked any of it.
He never wore anything that could suggest he was taken. Never used anything too obvious. He said a man in his position couldn't afford to look soft. Couldn't give anyone a handle to grip.
I used to joke about it.
Saying he acted like some deep-cover fed, hiding his identity from the world.
Now I realized.
It was never a joke.
He just never saw me as someone he needed to claim.
I was halfway through packing when I heard the door open.
He came back.
"Elena, what's this about?" he snapped the moment he saw me. "I've been calling you! I told you to come out for dinner. You didn't pick up or reply!"