When I Walked Away, He Learned to Miss Me

The ballroom fell into a hush so deep you could hear the ice clinking in champagne flutes. Every pair of eyes in the room turned toward me, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

Instead of exploding, I smiled. I raised my glass of absinthe and knocked it back in one burning swallow.

“I lose.”

A nervous laugh rippled through the crowd. Someone tried to break the tension: “Gianna cheated, didn’t she? You can’t just list your entire net worth like that.”

Gianna arched a perfect eyebrow. “Why not? That’s the game.”

She sidled up to Marco, pressing her shoulder against his arm. “Don Marco, tell them. Did I cheat?”

Marco gave that helpless, indulgent smirk he reserved only for her. “Of course not. You won. The whole point was to make you happy.” He patted her hand. “So, what’s your wish?”

Gianna shot me a triumphant look over her shoulder. “Take me to Tuscany tomorrow. I want to pick out a thoroughbred, and you have good taste.”

I set my glass down and dropped my gaze—a habit I’d perfected over three years of being the invisible Vittorio. It came so naturally now that even Marco didn't notice anything was wrong. He frowned slightly and said, “I promised Elena I’d help her move tomorrow.”

My chest tightened.

For three years, ever since he’d brought me back to Sicily, I’d been living in a crumbling apartment in the port district, miles from the Vittorio estate. Last month, when Marco asked what I wanted for my birthday, I told him the truth: I wanted formal recognition. I wanted my name on the family trust.

He’d stroked my hair and said, “Pick something else. You know how Gianna gets about these things. I’m working on her. Once she says yes, you’ll be acknowledged.”

I’d looked down and tried again: “Then at least let me move closer to the estate. The port is so far. It makes everything difficult.”

He’d hesitated. Said he’d think about it.

But I knew what “thinking about it” meant—he’d gone straight to Gianna first. She was the little princess who had grown up in my place, showered with everyone’s devotion. Even my mother had to placate her, tiptoe around her moods like she was made of glass.

Later, I learned the real reason: Gianna’s father had been our father’s most trusted advisor, a man who took a bullet meant for the Don. On his deathbed, my father swore an oath—as long as the Vittorio name stood, Gianna would always have her place at the table, untouchable. Marco and my mother didn't just dote on her because she was charming. They couldn't afford to lose the loyalty of the men who had bled for the family.

Yesterday, Marco had finally told me: Gianna had agreed. The house was arranged. I could move in after Christmas. I was so overjoyed I begged him to come with me. He’d said yes.

Now, the chandelier light flickered across Gianna’s smug face. She pouted. “Moving? It can wait. Why tomorrow? Why not the day after?”

Marco soothed her. “Horse shopping can wait too, can’t it? Any day but tomorrow.”

“No, I want tomorrow! That thoroughbred has other bidders!”

Her voice climbed, and the room went quieter still. With so many eyes on him, Marco’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to shut her down—

But I cut in first. “Go pick your horse tomorrow. I won’t move. The port is fine.”

Marco’s head whipped toward me, startled. He knew how much that apartment cost me. How much I’d wanted to feel like I belonged.

Seeing me step back, his eyes softened with guilt and pity.

“Let’s continue the game,” he said, looking at me now. “Elena goes first.”

I was quiet for a long moment. Someone nudged me from behind. “Go on! The Don is giving you a chance. You’ll win this time!”

I raised five fingers and fixed my eyes on Gianna. “I once spent an entire night in a graveyard, soaked to the bone in rain.”

Sympathetic murmurs rippled through the guests.

Gianna rolled her eyes, raised one finger, and shot back: “I spent a whole summer with Marco at his villa on Lake Como.”

I raised another finger, unruffled. “I killed a wild boar with my bare hands.”

Gianna grimaced. “For my birthday last year, Marco gave me a yacht.”

I lowered my lashes, voice barely above a whisper: “I buried my parents alone.”

Gianna faltered. She gritted her teeth. “I gave the family toast at the gala when I turned eighteen!”

Silence fell. Somehow, the game had narrowed to just the two of us.

I didn't back down. Holding up my last two fingers, I said flatly: “At my thinnest, I weighed thirty-five kilos.”

Gianna fired back desperately: “I have three properties, two yachts, and a private jet!”

She was scraping the bottom of the barrel, and everyone knew it.

I smiled faintly. “I have no home.”