Chapter 8
1026words
Afternoon sunlight streams through the gallery's floor-to-ceiling windows, dappling the polished floor with golden light. I stand before Monet's "Water Lilies," meticulously examining every inch of the frame. Tomorrow's auction is our biggest of the month, and nothing can go wrong with a painting worth two million euros.
"Irina, the crates in the backyard need to come in," Anna calls from the office doorway. "Ethan's waiting for you."
I nod, slipping off my heels and into flats. Over these four months, I've fully adapted to Parisian life. The gallery is thriving, and the three of us work together seamlessly. Best of all, the nightmares that once jolted me awake every night have finally stopped haunting me.
When I reach the backyard, Ethan is maneuvering a massive wooden crate. He's shed his jacket, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing tanned, muscular forearms. Sunlight catches in his golden-brown hair, giving him an almost ethereal glow.
"Careful, that's heavy." I hurry forward to help.
"It's fine, I've got it—" Before Ethan can finish, he steps on a loose paving stone and loses his balance, tipping backward.
I instinctively lunge forward to catch him but get pulled down by his weight. In that split second, Ethan yanks me into his arms, twisting so his back hits the wall instead of mine.
Time freezes. We're pressed together, close enough that I can feel his heartbeat and smell his subtle cologne. His warm hazel eyes lock onto mine with unexpected intensity.
"You okay?" His voice comes out slightly husky.
"I..." The words catch in my throat. It's been so long since anyone protected me like this, the simple act of being shielded sending unexpected warmth through my chest.
Just then, a cold voice cuts through the moment.
"How touching."
My blood freezes. That voice, that damned Italian accent—even after four months, I'd know it anywhere.
Slowly turning, I see Alessandro standing at the garden entrance, two black-suited men flanking him. He looks haggard—hollow-eyed, unshaven, his usually immaculate hair disheveled. But those deep blue eyes remain as dangerous as ever, now fixed on Ethan with predatory focus.
"Take your hands off her," his voice low and menacing.
Ethan shifts, positioning himself between us. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm her husband." Alessandro pulls a gun from inside his jacket, aiming the matte black barrel at Ethan's chest. "Now step away from her."
"Alessandro!" I snap. "Put that gun away!"
"Four months, Irina," madness flickers in his eyes. "For four months I've hunted for you like a man possessed, and here you are, cuddling with another man?"
"You have no right to question anything in my life," I say icily. "What we had is over."
"Over?" Alessandro lets out a harsh laugh. "We are husband and wife, bound by covenant. Only death can separate us."
Looking at his self-righteous posturing, disgust rises in my throat. "Covenant? You remember that now? Did you think about our covenant while you were fucking Jessica?"
Alessandro's face drains of color. "Irina, listen to me. Jessica and I are finished. I haven't touched her since, I swear—"
"Really?" I cut him off with a cold sneer, my eyes dropping to his left wrist. "Then what's that?"
He instinctively adjusts his cuff, the gold cufflink catching the sunlight. I remember perfectly that Jessica's gold locket and these cufflinks came as a matched set.
"This is..." Alessandro fumbles for words, but they die in his throat.
"That's the 'couple's gift' she gave you, isn't it? Christ, Alex, you can't even make your lies convincing." My voice drops to arctic levels. "It's been four months, and not only are you still with her, you're wearing her gifts. And now you have the audacity to point a gun at an innocent man while claiming you want me back?"
Looking at his ashen face, four months of suppressed rage finally erupts.
"Do you want to know why I really left?" I step toward him. "Do you want to know what actually happened that night?"
"Irina, we can go home and discuss this calmly—"
"Home?" I bark out a laugh. "Alessandro, do you remember that afternoon four months ago? Where were you? What were you doing?"
Alessandro's face grows even paler.
"You were on a beach in the Maldives, on your 'private island,' enjoying 'a day just for her' with Jessica." My voice trembles with rage. "I called you while people were shooting at me, while I was bleeding, while I needed you desperately. Do you know what you said?"
Alessandro stands frozen, unable to speak.
"You said, 'Don't let this garbage ruin our vacation.'" I spit each word through clenched teeth. "Then you hung up and went back to your little honeymoon while I was fighting for my life."
"No, that's not what I meant—"
"At that exact moment, I was being hunted through Chicago, crashed into by a car, and losing your child." Tears stream down my face, born of rage rather than grief. "While I was unconscious and bleeding out on an operating table, you were making out with your mistress on a fucking beach!"
Alessandro's face turns ghostly white, his body swaying as if about to collapse. "Irina, I didn't know—I swear I didn't know you were pregnant—"
"Of course you didn't know! Because you never gave a damn about me!" I scream. "For four months I've relived that phone call in my nightmares, hearing you say 'Don't let this garbage ruin our vacation'! Do you understand what that means? When I needed you most—when your CHILD needed you most—you chose another woman!"
Alessandro falls to his knees, the gun clattering to the ground. "Please, Irina, forgive me. I love you, I truly love you. Without you, I'll die—"
I look down at this once-powerful crime lord, feeling nothing but bottomless disgust and bone-deep exhaustion.
"Then die."
My voice is terrifyingly calm—no anger, no sadness, just absolute indifference.
After speaking, I turn and take Ethan's hand, walking back into the gallery without a backward glance. Behind me, Alessandro's desperate pleas echo, but my steps never falter.
The woman called Irina Moretti is dead and buried.
