Chapter 2

That night, I returned to Salvatore's townhouse. I stood in the foyer and let my gaze travel slowly across the space we'd shared for three years.

The memories came flooding back—the part of the story that had made me believe in love in the first place.

Five years ago, my mother was murdered by a rival family. The grief had shattered me. I'd screamed at my father and blamed him for not protecting her. Then I'd packed a bag and walked out, vowing to leave the Rizzo name behind forever.

I came to New York with nothing but a fake name and a heart full of wounds. I told myself I'd never get close to anyone again.

Then I met Salvatore.

He fell for me at the first sight and pursued me with a patience I'd never seen in anyone. I turned him down ten times. I told him I wasn't interested, I couldn't be with anyone, I was better off alone. Ten times I watched his face fall and then harden with determination.

"I don't care if you're an orphan," he said once, his voice unwavering. "I don't care if you have nothing. I care about you, Chiara."

I should have kept pushing him away. But something about the way he looked at me made the walls around my heart start to crack.

Then came the night that changed everything.

I was walking home from the café. Two men stepped out from a dark alley and pressed me against the wall. I struggled, but they were bigger, stronger.

And then Salvatore was there.

He came out of nowhere, throwing himself between me and the men, his fists swinging. He fought them off with a ferocity that stunned me—but in the chaos, one of them pulled a knife. The blade caught Salvatore across the shoulder. Then the men ran.

At the hospital, the nurses stitched Salvatore up. I sat beside his hospital bed.

"Why did you do that?" I whispered, my voice breaking. "You could have died. Why would you—"

He reached up with his good hand and brushed the tears from my cheeks. "Because I would rather die than let anything happen to you, Chiara. I want to spend the rest of my life protecting you. Please stop pushing me away."

I sobbed into his chest, careful to avoid his wound, and I told him yes.

He pulled me into his arms. "I'm the happiest man alive," he said, pressing his forehead to mine. "I promise you, Chiara. I will never let you go."

Later, during one of our early dates, we passed a small church on the edge of the city. Salvatore stopped and pulled me close.

"Someday," he said, "I'm going to give you the biggest wedding this city has ever seen. I'm going to put my family ring on your finger—the ring of the donna—and I'm going to love you for the rest of my life."

He added, his voice dropping to something serious, "And if I ever break that promise, you could leave. Because you deserve someone who keeps every single word he says."

I believed him. I believed every word. For three years, I stood beside him as he climbed to the top of his world.

And now, he'd taken that ring and put it on Linsey's finger like it meant nothing.

Now that he'd broken his promise, I'd walk away and never look back. He would never have me again.

I pulled open the closet and started filling black garbage bags with everything Salvatore had ever given me. The limited‑edition plush toys he'd won for me at carnival booths. The matching coffee mugs with our initials painted in crooked letters. The photo albums filled with snapshots of happier days.

One by one, they went into the bags.

Suddenly, my phone screen flickered to life.

A series of photos from Linsey popped up. I opened them, and my breath caught in my throat.

The photos showed Linsey leaning against Salvatore's shoulder, her smile wide and triumphant. Behind them, the Ferris wheel rose against the night sky. The colorful fireworks exploded above the wheel.

I recognized the place instantly.

It was my amusement park. The one he'd built for me.

He'd said the park was our sacred place, a place no one else would ever share. But now he'd taken Linsey there.

My phone buzzed again. A message from Linsey.

"Salvatore said this place was special to him, so he wanted to share it with me. Please don't be upset that we went out alone. We're nothing but really, really good friends. He's been so busy since becoming don, and he hardly ever gets time to just relax. Please don't read too much into it, okay?"

I let out a bitter smile.

Yes, Salvatore was busy. After he became don, every email, every ledger, every negotiation demanded his personal attention.

The last time he'd taken me out alone was six months ago. He'd had the driver stop at Central Park, rolled down the window, and said, "Just walk around for a bit—I have a call."

I'd wandered for an hour, and when I came back, he was asleep in the back seat, his phone still glowing with an open chat with Linsey.

Back then, I told myself to be understanding. He was a mafia boss. He had an entire family to carry. He couldn't be expected to act like a regular boyfriend. A good donna didn't get jealous. I shouldn't make demands. I shouldn't make his life harder.

But now I realized something—it didn't matter what I did. Salvatore always found me lacking.