Page 10 of Shattered Engagement

“Are you all right?” I ask, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture of tenderness that surprises me.

“Yes,” she answers, and the genuine smile that accompanies the word strikes something inside me. “Better than all right.”

I can’t help but smile in return, pressing a kiss to her forehead before helping her gather her clothing. We dress in companionable silence. I zip her dress, allowing my fingers to linger on the smooth skin of her back. She helps with my tie, her hands deft and sure.

“Your lipstick,” I observe, brushing my thumb across her lower lip. “Completely gone.”

“Your fault,” she replies, attempting to tame her tousled hair.

“I take full responsibility.” The lightness in our exchange feels foreign to me. When was the last time I spoke to someone without calculation, without an angle? Maria, perhaps—my former nanny, the woman who raised me—but even our conversations are shadowed by the past and my plans for revenge.

As I watch “Chiara” check her reflection, I see reality settling back over her like a cloak. Whatever freedom she sought tonight has an expiration date. Soon, she’ll return to her real life—to the fiancé she clearly doesn’t love, to the obligations that weigh on her shoulders.

“When do you need to leave?” I ask, reading the shift in her expression.

“Soon,” she admits. “People will notice I’m missing.”

I nod, accepting the inevitable. “I’ll call you a car.”

“No need. I can get a taxi.”

“Humor me.” I pull out my phone, sending a quick text to Crispino, one of my most trusted drivers. “A car will meet you out front in five minutes. Private driver, very discreet. He’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

She hesitates, then agrees with a simple “Thank you.” I watch as she retrieves her clutch, taking out an engagement ring—large, ostentatious, screaming old money and older tastes. Not something she would have chosen for herself, I’m certain.

As she slips it onto her finger, curiosity gets the better of me. “What’s his name? The man you’re marrying.”

She smiles, steps closer, and presses a kiss on my cheek. “Thank you for this, Alessio.”

She turns away without answering my question, her silence more telling than any words could be. The ring catches the light as she adjusts her dress one final time, the diamond glittering like a prison sentence.

I watch her collect herself—shoulders straightening, chin lifting, the vulnerable woman from moments ago disappearing behind a carefully constructed mask of composure. The transformation is fascinating, reminding me of my own daily metamorphosis between identities.

She moves toward the door, every step reclaiming the grace and poise of whoever she truly is beneath the false name she gave me. Her hand pauses on the handle, and for a moment, I think she might turn back—might offer one last word, one last glance.

But she doesn’t.

The door opens, and she steps through it without looking back, leaving nothing but her lingering scent and the echo of passion in the suddenly too-empty room.

I stare at the closed door, allowing myself exactly five seconds of weakness—five seconds to wonder about the woman behind the name “Chiara,” five seconds to acknowledge the unsettling feeling that tonight meant more than it should have.

Then I lock it all away, straightening my tie and smoothing back my hair. I have a meeting with Vittorio in twenty minutes. Intelligence to review. Avendettato complete.

I pull out my phone, typing a quick message to ensure Crispino gets her safely to her destination. One final courtesy before I put her out of my mind completely.

But as I slip back into the crowded club, moving through the mass of bodies with practiced ease, I can’t shake the feeling that something significant has shifted tonight—something that has nothing to do with my carefully laid plans for Giancarlo Calviño.

The weight of my gun presses against my side, a cold reminder of reality. Whatever connection I felt with “Chiara” was an illusion—a beautiful one, but an illusion nonetheless. In my world, attachments are weaknesses. Weaknesses get you killed.

I signal the bartender for a scotch, neat. As the amber liquid burns down my throat, I make myself a promise: whoever she is, whatever her real name might be, she remains in this club. In this moment. A ghost of pleasure, nothing more.

My phone buzzes. Vittorio, confirming our meeting location.

It’s time to become Alessio again. The one with vengeance in his blood and ice in his veins.

The one who can’t afford to be haunted by green eyes and secrets.

4

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