My Consigliere, I Will Not Stand Behind You Anymore

It took me ten years to become the right hand to Damian Costello, the Consigliere of the Costello crime family.

From a nobody to the woman wearing his engagement ring.

But two weeks before the wedding, I decided to throw that ring away.

Everyone in the family knew how hard I had fought all these years just to stand by Damian's side.

I gave up the chance to become a top trader on Wall Street, willingly becoming Damian's assistant, his shadow.

This man was infamous for his coldness and exacting nature, keeping everyone at arm's length.

So I hid my sharp edges, spending a decade wearing down his icy exterior with gentleness.

I cleansed the blood from every dollar he made. I became a necessity to him, as essential as the air he breathed.

I thought that after ten years, I had finally made my presence indispensable.

And finally earned what looked, to outsiders, like a glimmer of his affection.

The family's notoriously aloof genius actually remembered my birthday. He even made an exception, letting me spend the night in his private study when I was unwell.

He didn't even push me away when, emboldened by wine, I pressed a kiss to the side of his neck.

If the Don's daughter, Isabella, hadn't returned from Italy, I might have kept playing my part, clinging to that false dream forever.

But sadly, there are no ‘ifs’. I am going to give up everything here and leave you.

...

"Boss, my transfer request. I want to go to the Oasis Casino in Nevada."

I pushed the signed, encrypted file across the black walnut desk, my voice perfectly level.

The Underboss, sitting across from me, took the cigar from his mouth and stared at me in shock.

"Ava? Have you lost your mind? Aren't you and Damian getting married next month?"

"We're all waiting for Damian to make the official announcement. And you want to go waste away in the desert at a time like this?"

I suppressed the sharp pain in my chest and cut him off. "Boss, my mind is made up. Just sign it."

No one knew that Damian's proposal had nothing to do with love. It was born from a bloody firefight with the Russian mob two months ago.

Damian was ambushed that day, and I was the one who charged into that abandoned warehouse alone.

To cover his retreat, I drew their fire.

A bullet tore through my shoulder, staining the concrete floor with my blood. I bit down, refusing to make a sound. The brutes, enraged, smashed a rifle butt against the back of my head.

I bought Damian enough time for reinforcements to arrive, but I nearly bled out. I almost didn't make it.

I lay in the ICU for three days. When I woke up, the man who was usually so distant was sitting by my bed, his eyes bloodshot.

He held my cold hand, his voice hoarse.

"Ava, let's get married next month."

After all our years together, I could clearly read the guilt in his eyes.

He just wanted to use marriage to settle the debt he felt he owed me for my life.

But I was shameless enough to accept this emotional blackmail, just to secure my place by his side forever.

As I walked out of the headquarters, a live broadcast of a charity gala was playing on the giant LED screen in Manhattan.

A few new recruits who had just joined the family were gathered under the screen, whistling.

"Whoa, look! It's Mr. Costello and Miss Isabella!"

"The prince and princess of the mob. Damn, they look good together."

"I heard Mr. Costello never lets any woman get close. Looks like Miss Isabella is the exception."

Their chatter was like needles stabbing at my ears. I fought off a wave of dizziness and looked up at the screen.

In the close-up shot, Isabella was leaning in to whisper something in Damian's ear, and he was bent slightly to listen.

They were so close, yet he showed no sign of discomfort.

The same man who required me to maintain a ten-foot distance while giving a report was now letting another woman's breath ghost against his ear.

Isabella was practically plastered to his side, but he didn't pull away. A hint of an indulgent smile even touched the corners of his eyes.

My heart clenched violently.

Because I had once believed that no one could ever break through the walls he had built.

But Isabella's return had shown me a completely different Damian.

I remembered the first time I heard Damian say the name "Isabella."

He had been staring at a mess of chaotic data, but a faint, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips.

"Isabella messed up the order of the accounts again."

There was no blame in his tone, only a sort of fond indulgence.

Isabella was the apple of the Don's eye, the brightest sun in the entire family, radiant and bold.

She could barge into Damian's heavily guarded office and use his classified documents as drawing paper.

She could snatch the whiskey from Damian's hand, down it in one go, and then laugh with abandon on the very desk he would break a man's fingers for even touching.

I once saw it with my own eyes. In his office, Isabella's fingers traced the tattoo on the side of his neck, the one that symbolized the family's honor.

And Damian, the same man who would flinch if my own fingertips accidentally brushed against him, just froze for a second. The tips of his ears turned a faint red, and he made no move to push her away.

I finally understood that this man wasn't born cold.

It’s just that his flustered, boyish awakening to love was never meant for me.

I returned to the luxury penthouse in Manhattan.

This was meant to be our home, decorated with the utmost extravagance, yet the times Damian had actually stayed here could be counted on one hand.

I calmly opened the closet and took down, one by one, the subdued dresses I had bought just to suit his tastes.

The scenes I had once imagined, of us having dinner together before these floor-to-ceiling windows, now felt like a silent slap in the face.

I found some cardboard boxes and packed up all my personal belongings, not leaving so much as a toothbrush holder behind.

I hired a discreet moving service and had them clear my things out immediately.

Just as I finished, my phone buzzed.

It was an encrypted message from the Underboss: [Transfer approved. The Oasis is a mess. Good luck.]

Almost simultaneously, a message from Damian popped up:

[Private jet N481DC. Landing at Teterboro, 8 PM tomorrow. Pick me up.]

I stared at the message for a long time, until the screen's light hurt my eyes.

Then, I hit reply and typed the first refusal I had given him in ten years.

[No time.]