Chapter 4

I stared at the glowing screen, my fingers hovering over the glass. I didn't reply.

A few minutes later, another message popped up.

【Are you angry? Don't be. I'll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise.】

Make it up to me.

Always compensation.

I set the phone to silent and tossed it carelessly onto the leather sofa.

I ignored the gourmet ingredients stocked by the private chef and chose to boil a simple portion of Pasta in bianco, just plain spaghetti tossed with a drop of olive oil.

It was a humble, almost tasteless, grounding meal—my last dinner in this country.

Just as the steam rose from the freshly plated pasta and I placed it on the dining table, the heavy electronic lock on the front door beeped.

Dominic strode in, his tailored suit jacket slightly rumpled, his demeanor rushed.

He paused when he saw me sitting alone at the expansive marble table, staring at a solitary bowl of pasta.

I placed the pasta on the table and pulled out a chair.

"Aren't you supposed to be at the private hospital with Bianca?"

Dominic loosened his tie, walking over to the bar to pour himself a glass of water.

"Bianca said she’s craving those Ricotta Cannolis from that old bakery in the Old Quarter."

He muttered, grabbing his spare set of keys from the marble counter.

"I just drove back to grab the keys to the armored SUV so I can head over and get them for her."

The Old Quarter.

Years ago, that was the exact district where he had braved a strict territorial curfew imposed by rival families, just to smuggle back a cup of herbal tea that I had offhandedly mentioned wanting.

Now, he was more than willing to cross a city fractured by an ongoing turf war, risking his own safety, just to satisfy Bianca’s sweet tooth.

"Are you throwing another tantrum?"

Seeing my silence, Dominic’s brow furrowed deeper, a flash of irritation in his sharp eyes.

"I already told you, Bianca was targeted in an attack. I can’t just abandon the daughter of my savior when she’s terrified and bleeding, can I?"

"Can you, for once, understand the weight of my responsibilities?"

I twirled a few strands of pastas with my fork and brought them to my mouth.

They were completely bland, entirely devoid of flavor.

"I’m not throwing a tantrum," I said perfectly calmly.

"Go buy her pastries. Don’t keep her waiting."

Dominic shot me a suspicious, piercing look.

My unnatural composure today seemed to catch him off guard.

But since he was in a rush to leave, he didn't push any further.

"I'm heading out then. I probably won't return tonight," he said, adjusting his holster.

"Bianca is terrified of being alone after the shooting. I need to stay overnight at the family clinic to oversee her security detail."

"Get some sleep early."

He grabbed the keys to the armored vehicle and turned to leave.

But as he reached the threshold, he suddenly halted.

He looked back, his gaze narrowing at the unusually empty marble shoe rack in the foyer.

"Where are all your designer heels and daily shoes?"

I swallowed the tasteless food in my mouth without looking up.

"They were worn out. I threw them away."

Dominic didn’t question it further, pulled the heavy oak door shut, and left.

I slowly finished the bowl of pasta, washed the bowl, and inverted it onto the drying rack.

Then, throwing on a dark trench coat, I slung my leather backpack over my shoulder and grabbed the handle of my solitary, twenty-inch black suitcase.

Without a single backward glance, I walked out of the villa that had cage-locked me for three years.

To avoid Dominic's vast web of security guards and cameras at the central terminal, I boarded a discreet, late-night airport shuttle bus.

Leaning my head against the cold glass window, I watched the neon lights of Palermo—the city where I had bled, loved, and ruined myself for seven years—rapidly recede into the shadows of the night.

Suddenly, my burner phone buzzed. It was a decrypted screenshot from Susan.

It was a post from Bianca’s private social media feed.

The photo showed a box of steaming, freshly baked traditional cannolis against the pristine, high-thread-count white sheets of the luxury family hospital wing.

A powerful, distinctively scarred male hand was holding a silver fork, delicately cutting the pastry for her.

On his wrist gleamed a custom Patek Philippe, which I had saved up for months from my medical research stipends to gift him on his last birthday.

The caption read:

【The ambush was terrifying, but someone braved a turf war and crossed half the city just to bring me my favorite dolci. Suddenly, a sprained ankle feels like a blessing.】

Right beneath it was a single comment from Dominic’s private account:

【Eat slowly. No one is taking it from you.】

Susan’s furious texts flooded the screen immediately after.

【Jesus! My poor Aria! Don't tell me you are spending your fifth anniversary alone while he is playing the doting savior to that bitch?!】

【That bastard! Does he even view you as his woman, let alone his future Donna?!】

I looked at the barrage of angry emojis from Susan.

My fingers tapped lightly across the glass.

【Susa, I’m leaving.】

【Heading to Geneva.】

The other side went completely silent for a long time.

Then, an audio message popped up.

Susan’s voice came through, choked with suppressed tears.

"Go, Aria. Run. Don’t you dare ever look back."

I closed the app, popped the SIM card out of the phone tray, and dropped the tiny piece of plastic through the cracked window slot of the speeding bus, letting it vanish forever into the howling, pitch-black Sicilian wind.