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No. No, no, no.
My chest caves in. I can’t breathe or even think past the roaring in my ears.
The rest spills out in the same quiet tone, apologies laced with words that cut deeper than any blade, sorrow heavy between the lines.
No accusations. She doesn’t blame me for being what I am. No anger. Just resignation, acceptance, and a goodbye that hits like a verdict.
She knew the truth. She knew what I had to do, what Gabi ordered, what my oath demanded, and she left because she’s smarter than I gave her credit for—smart enough to run before I became her executioner.
Halfway through reading, my vision goes, not from the blood loss or the shoulder wound that’s probably killing me slowly, but from something worse, something I don’t have a name for and refuse to acknowledge.
My throat closes, and the words swim on the page. I crumple the note with my fist before I even finish the letter because I can’t do this, can’t feel this. Not now.
She loved me enough to run. Or maybe she loved herself enough not to stay.
Hard to tell which hurts more.
The world narrows to quiet static. The hum of the fridge. The distant city noise. My heart pounds in a chest that feels too small. My memory drifts back to last night, to the slow, tender way she moved beneath the sheets, as if memorizing every touch. The tremor in her voice when she said my name. Some part of me knew. I just couldn’t face the truth of her goodbye.
The floor rises fast as my legs give out and my knees hit the tile.
The rings and the note sit in my bloody palm. Grotesque keepsakes.
I try calling her. No answer. Straight to voicemail.
Marco’s text vibrates a second later. She’s gone. No trace.
Fury flares sharp enough to cut through exhaustion.
I drop my phone and act without thought, grabbing my jacket, keys, and gun. Eager to find her. To find whoever has her. To burn whatever corner she’s hiding in until she answers.
The door opens before I reach it.
Izzy.
Perfect timing. She always knows when to show up.
As usual, she looks carved from ice, her hair sleek, her heels clicking against marble, her perfume curling through the air like smoke. Her eyes sweep over the mess. My blood, Sophia’s ring, Nonna Rosa’s ring, and the note crushed in my hand. For once, she doesn’t smirk.
“Enzo.” Her voice is low and measured. “You shouldn’t be up.”
“Don’t start.”
She glides closer. “You think running on rage is gonna fix this? You’re bleeding through your shirt.”
“Where is she?”
The question comes out strangled. Broken. I’m a drowning man.
She releases that faint sigh she does when pretending to care. “Gone. Like everyone warned you she would be.”
Something snaps. “Don’t.” The word cracks across the silence.
My chest splits open. Everything inside me goes cold, then hot, then numb.
Her gaze gentles, not with pity exactly, but close enough. “You want proof?”
She reaches into her coat and produces a small flash drive. “You’ll wish you didn’t ask.”
