Pursuing the BILLIONAIRE GARDENER

"Sir, I'm applying for the 'Nightingale' Program."

When I arrived at the Federal Building, Handler Smith was just lighting a cigar.

"Elena Rossi," he read my name out loud. "Are you sure you want to sign the agreement for the 'Nightingale Program'?"

"I'm sure."

Smith pulled a black folder from the safe.

As he opened it, I saw a photo of my brother, Luca—wearing CIA training gear, smiling brightly.

My fingers curled tight under the table.

Smith snubbed out his cigar. "Fingerprints destroyed, files sealed. This means the person known as Elena Rossi will cease to exist. Your brother Luca was my best student. Three years ago, he took a bullet for Enzo and died. How can I let you..."

"Besides, you're the wife of the Moretti family's most powerful Underboss. Can you really bear to leave Enzo?"

A cold laugh echoed inside my head. “Can I? Absolutely,” I thought, “because I'm done with him.”

All of Little Italy knew that Elena Rossi was the shadow Enzo Moretti couldn't shake.

But it took me three years to realize that a shadow can never be seen in his eyes.

Three days ago, when I pushed open the study door, I saw the silver crucifix necklace around Bianca's neck—the keepsake my brother Luca gave me right before he died.

"Elena, this thing will only keep you trapped in the past."

His voice was calm, stating it like a fact. "Looking at it and thinking of him does you no good."

Bianca ran her fingers over the necklace, sounding conflicted. "Elena, if you can't bear to part with it..."

"No need." Enzo interrupted her, his tone leaving no room for argument. "What's given is given; there's no taking it back. Besides, this is for Elena's own good."

In that moment, I looked at his self-righteous face. "For your own good"—it was all bullshit. He just wanted to take away the last memory I had to please the person he actually cared about.

Since the Moretti family rule is "only death parts us, not divorce," then I'll give him a "death."

"Two weeks to settle your affairs," Smith finally said. "We'll arrange a gas leak explosion. From then on, you'll be the CIA's 'Winter,' not Elena Rossi."

I took the folder. As I stood up, he stopped me. "One last question—is Enzo Moretti really not worth a single regret?"

I paused at the door, not looking back, and said every word clearly, "He never truly saw me, so what is there to regret?"

Walking out of the Federal Building, the late autumn wind cut through the Manhattan streets like a knife.

In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of a French restaurant, I suddenly spotted a familiar figure.

Enzo was wearing his usual custom black suit, his profile sharp and cold. Bianca, on the other hand, wore a white haute couture gown, looking like a pure swan as she looked up at him and smiled.

It was a match that would make anyone jealous.

Enzo held a peeled truffle chocolate, feeding it into her mouth, then gently wiped a crumb from the corner of her lips with his thumb.

My heart seized up, and I turned to leave.

"Elena!" Bianca saw me first and waved enthusiastically. "What a coincidence!"

Enzo turned around, frowning slightly. A flash of guilt crossed his eyes at being caught, but it was quickly replaced by indifference. "What are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to stay home and have dinner with Mamma?"