Unveiling the Mask

The glow of the city lights filtered through the penthouse windows, casting long shadows on the sleek marble floors. I sat curled up on the oversized couch, my knees pulled to my chest, staring at the untouched glass of water on the table in front of me.

The events of the past twenty-four hours played on a loop in my mind: Vincent’s cryptic warning, the attack in the parking lot, and Armando’s unwavering promise that I was safe with him.

But was I?

The man who had lunged at me with a knife was no random thug. He had known what he was doing, and he hadn’t hesitated. That kind of precision came from experience—and that terrified me.

Armando entered the room, his presence as commanding as ever, a cup of coffee in his hand. He placed it on the table before sitting across from me. His tie was loosened, and the faintest hint of weariness shadowed his otherwise sharp features.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said, his tone calm but probing.

I glanced at him, the weight of unspoken questions pressing on my chest. “What did that man want?”

Armando leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady but unreadable. “To send a message,” he said finally. “To me.”

“Because of your… business?” I asked, the word feeling inadequate for whatever world he operated in.

He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Because I don’t play by their rules. And when people can’t control you, they try to destroy you.”

His words sent a shiver down my spine. “And me? Am I just collateral damage in this war of yours?”

His gaze softened, a flicker of something human breaking through his usual composure. “No. You’re not collateral damage, Olivia. You’re… different.”

“Different how?” I challenged, my voice stronger than I expected.

He hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Because you remind me of something I forgot a long time ago. That there’s still a part of me worth fighting for.”

The vulnerability in his words caught me off guard, leaving me momentarily speechless.

The next day, Armando insisted on taking me out, claiming we both needed a distraction. He wouldn’t tell me where we were going, and I didn’t bother asking. I was too drained to fight him.

When the car pulled up to an old boxing gym in a less glamorous part of town, I raised an eyebrow.

“A gym?” I asked, stepping out of the car and staring at the weathered sign above the entrance.

“You’ve been through a lot,” Armando said simply, leading the way inside. “It’s time you learned how to protect yourself.”

The scent of sweat and leather filled the air as we walked in. A few people were scattered around, throwing punches at heavy bags or sparring in the ring.

Armando handed me a pair of gloves and guided me to a corner of the gym where a punching bag hung from the ceiling.

“Hit it,” he said, his tone firm but encouraging.

I stared at the bag, then back at him. “You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Reluctantly, I slipped on the gloves and squared up to the bag. My first punch was weak, barely moving the heavy bag.

“Harder,” Armando instructed, stepping closer.

I threw another punch, this one slightly more forceful.

“Think of James,” he said, his voice low and deliberate.

That did it. My next punch was harder, and the one after that harder still. My mind filled with images of James’s betrayal, Samantha’s smug face, and the fear I had felt during the attack in the parking lot.

By the time I stepped back, my breath was ragged, and my hands ached. But I felt… lighter.

Armando handed me a water bottle, his eyes scanning my face. “Better?”

I nodded, unable to put the feeling into words.

That evening, as we returned to the penthouse, a package was waiting for Armando. He opened it in the kitchen, his expression darkening as he read the contents.

“What is it?” I asked, stepping closer.

“James,” he said, his voice clipped. “He’s in deeper trouble than I thought.”

He handed me a photograph—a grainy image of James shaking hands with a man I didn’t recognize. But the man’s face was enough to send a chill down my spine.

“Who is that?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Alessandro Ferro,” Armando said, his tone grim. “One of the most dangerous men in Europe. If James is involved with him, it’s only a matter of time before everything unravels.”

I stared at the photo, my stomach twisting. “What does this mean for me?”

“It means you need to decide how far you’re willing to go,” Armando said, his gaze locking onto mine. “Because this isn’t just about James anymore. It’s about survival.”

That night, sleep eluded me. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing.

Armando’s words had unsettled me, but they had also lit a fire inside me. I wasn’t just a victim. I wasn’t just James’s discarded wife.

I was Olivia Pierce.

And it was time I started acting like it.

The next morning, I joined Armando in the study, determination burning in my chest.

“I want to help,” I said firmly.

He looked up from his desk, his expression skeptical. “Help how?”

“Whatever it takes to bring James down,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m tired of sitting on the sidelines while everyone else makes decisions for me.”

Armando studied me for a long moment before nodding. “Then we do this together.”

The promise in his words sent a shiver down my spine. But this time, it wasn’t fear I felt.

It was power.