The Don's Late-Night Texts

I worked at Blue Moon Financial—the most prestigious firm in Chicago. But behind the glass towers and polished marble lobbies, it was owned by the Castellano family. The most feared Italian mafia in the Midwest.

And my boss, Vito Castellano, was a made man. A capo in the family's inner circle.

I hated him. Not because he was in the mob—honestly, in this city, clean money was harder to come by. I hated him because he had a reputation that followed him everywhere: the playboy. Vito swapped women faster than he swapped his sports cars. Last month's cover girl was this month's B-list actress.

The man I'd been talking to online, Gravano, couldn't have been more different.

Gravano was gentle. Devoted. Every word he typed felt soaked in honey.

We talked all night. Then a week. A month. A year.

For twelve months straight, he messaged me every single night without fail.

[Thinking about you, baby.]

[Passed by a bookstore today. Saw a poetry collection and thought of you.]

[Had another dream about you last night. You were on top of me, begging for more. I kissed that little mole on your collarbone in my dream—and I couldn't stop thinking about it all day.]

I was mid-sip of my coffee when I read that one. Nearly choked. I typed back: [You've got quite the imagination.]

He replied instantly: [Not imagination. A preview.]

My face was hot enough to fry an egg on.

Sometimes he sent voice messages late at night, his voice pitched low like he was afraid of waking someone up, husky and rough as he said my name: "Bella, you asleep? I miss you. Don't turn your phone off tonight, okay? I can't sleep. I just want to hear you breathe."

"We're going to meet. We're going to be together for real. We'll never be apart, right?"

I admitted it. I fell hard.

We'd been talking online for over three hundred days—sharing everything from childhood scars to life dreams—but I'd never seen his face. He always dodged video calls, saying he wanted to "keep a little mystery." I thought it was romantic. I'd even started planning when and where we'd finally meet in person.

Last Thursday, I pulled the night shift. Didn't get home until two in the morning. I collapsed onto my bed, completely wrecked. My phone lit up—a message from Gravano.

[Had to handle some business at the family estate today. I'm wiped.]

Attached was a photo. Taken from inside a car. Outside the window was the Castellano family's lakeside estate—the iron gate bearing the family crest, a falcon with its wings spread, gleaming cold under the moonlight.

But what made my pupils contract wasn't the gate.

It was the man's face reflected in the car window.

That face—I saw it at least three times a day at the office. Vito Castellano. My boss. The playboy.

I stared at that reflection for a full five minutes. He was wearing a black shirt in the photo, that casual, careless smirk on his lips—the same one I saw every damn day—and it looked nothing like the gentle smile I'd imagined every time Gravano whispered "Goodnight, my princess."

Nausea crawled up my throat.

An entire year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Every single "I only love you" he'd ever typed—right as he hit send, there was probably another woman sitting on the couch next to him.

My fingers were shaking as I typed out the words: [We're done.]

Then I blocked him. Every platform. Every number. I threw my phone to the foot of the bed and pulled the covers over my head like some goddamn ostrich burying its face in the sand.

I didn't cry. I just felt cold.