The first lie was silence.
My phone didn't ring.
Not once.
No missed calls. No frantic messages. No desperate "Where are you?" from the people who used to smile at me at dinners and call me cara like it meant something.
I stood on the sidewalk outside the building I'd lived in for three years under the DeLuca name, my bag cutting into my shoulder, the cold air chewing at my skin. The doorman didn't meet my eyes. He stared straight ahead like I wasn't there, like he'd been trained to forget my face overnight.
Maybe he had.
Maybe all it took was one word from Vittorio.
I reached into my coat pocket and found the rings weren't there anymore.
Of course they weren't.
My fingers still felt the weight of them anyway, phantom pressure on bare skin, like my body was stubborn enough to hold onto what my mind had already set down on a table.
A car passed too slowly.
Dark. Tinted.
I didn't turn my head to follow it. I kept my gaze forward and made my breathing steady because the worst thing you can do in a world like this is let men smell fear on you.
My phone buzzed.
Not a call.
A bank notification.
ACCOUNT RESTRICTED.
I stared at the screen for half a second, then slipped the phone back into my pocket.
Of course it was restricted.
Of course it was.
They didn't just divorce you in this world. They disconnected you. They pulled your oxygen line and watched to see if you'd beg for air.
I lifted my chin and started walking.
The hotel lobby was warm, gold-lit, soft music humming through hidden speakers. It smelled like polished wood and expensive perfume, like a place built for people who never had to count their steps.
The receptionist looked up with a professional smile that died the second her eyes found my face.
Not because she recognized me.
Because she recognized the absence.
The lack of ring. The lack of entourage. The lack of protection.
Her gaze flicked to my hands, then away.
"Good evening," she said, voice still polite, but colder around the edges. "Do you have a reservation?"
"I need a room," I replied.
"And your card?"
I slid my card over.
She tapped it once against the counter, then inserted it. Her fingers moved fast, efficient. Her eyes stayed down. The screen reflected pale light across her face.
A beep.
A pause.
Another beep.
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I'm sorry," she said smoothly, handing it back without meeting my gaze. "This card isn't going through."
"I have another," I lied.
I didn't.
I handed her a different card anyway. Same result.
She didn't look surprised. She looked… relieved. Like the problem was resolving itself.
"Perhaps you'd like to contact your..." she stopped, corrected herself, "...your bank."
My mouth curled.
"My bank," I repeated.
She offered a thin smile. Empty. Apologetic without sincerity.
"There's nothing I can do."
I leaned in slightly.
"You can," I said, keeping my voice low, calm. "You just won't."
Her eyes finally lifted to mine, and for one second I saw it.
Fear.
Not of me.
Of what touching me might cost her.
"I'm sorry," she repeated.
The lie sounded cleaner the second time.
I stepped back, picked up my bag, and walked out without another word.
Behind me, her shoulders dropped like she'd been holding her breath until I left.
I didn't go to the people who hated Vittorio.
That would've been stupid.
I didn't go to strangers.
That would've been suicidal.
I went to someone who had kissed my cheeks at charity events and called me sister in a room full of women who wore diamonds like armor.
Livia Romano.
She ran a private gallery two streets away from the river, a place filled with art that was probably worth more than most people's lives. Livia was married to a man in the family's orbit, not a capo, not a soldier, but close enough to feel important.
Close enough to be dangerous.
The bell over the door chimed when I walked in.
Warm air rushed over me, thick with perfume, lacquered wood, something floral and sharp. I kept my posture straight, my steps slow, controlled. Like I belonged. Like the world hadn't just ripped my name off my skin.
Livia looked up from behind the counter.
Her eyes widened just a fraction before she smoothed her expression into something soft.
"Ivy," she said.
Not cara. Not love.
Just my name.
Like a test.
"Livia," I replied.
She came around the counter with careful grace, heels silent against the floor. She stopped too far away for a kiss, too far away for intimacy. She didn't touch my arm. She didn't reach for my hands.
Her gaze flicked to my left hand.
Bare.
Her throat bobbed.
"What happened?" she asked, but her voice didn't match the words. It wasn't concern. It was calculation.
"You know what happened," I said.
Her eyes flicked toward the back of the gallery. Toward a door. Toward the office. Toward privacy.
"Come," she murmured. "We can talk."
She led me back. Not quickly. Not urgently. Like she was walking someone out of a building, not pulling a friend into safety.
Her office smelled like paper and expensive candles. There was a couch, a glass decanter, two chairs that were too neat to be used often.
She didn't sit.
Neither did I.
Livia folded her hands in front of her, knuckles pale. "I heard… something."
"Did you," I said.
Her eyes dropped.
"It's… everywhere," she murmured. "The statement."
So it had already been released.
Of course it had.
I felt something cold crawl up my spine, but I didn't let it show. I kept my voice even.
"I need help," I said. No explanation. No plea. Just the fact.
Livia's lips parted. Her breath hitched, and for a split second she looked like she might say yes.
Then her gaze flicked toward the window, like she expected someone to be watching.
She swallowed.
"Ivy," she whispered.
That was the moment I knew.
The moment the door would close.
"I can't," she said.
I stared at her.
"You can," I corrected. "You won't."
Her eyes filled with something that looked like guilt. Not enough to change her mind. Just enough to make her feel like a decent person while she abandoned me.
"It's not about you," she insisted. "It's… you know how it is. If I..."
"If you help me, you become a problem," I finished.
She flinched.
"I have a child," she said quickly, like that was her shield. "I can't jeopardize..."
"You won't," I said, cutting her off. "Because Vittorio already jeopardized me."
The name made her shoulders tighten.
Even now.
Even in her own office.
He didn't have to be there to control the room.
Livia took a step closer, then stopped again like there was an invisible line she wasn't allowed to cross.
"I'm sorry," she said, softer. "I truly am."
I laughed once, quiet and sharp.
"Don't," I said.
Her eyes flicked up.
"Don't apologize," I repeated. "Just own what you're doing."
"I'm not doing anything," she whispered.
Exactly.
That was the point.
She did nothing, and in this world, doing nothing was how people died.
I shifted my bag on my shoulder, the strap biting into my palm. My body was tired, my back tight, my jaw clenched so hard it ached, but my voice stayed level.
"Thank you for confirming something for me," I said.
Livia blinked, confused.
"That none of you were ever my friends," I added.
Her face tightened.
"That's not fair."
I tilted my head.
"Fair?" I echoed. "You're standing in a room full of art worth millions, refusing to give a woman a safe place to sleep because you're scared of a man. Don't talk to me about fair."
Livia's eyes flashed,anger now, defensive, sharper than guilt.
"You think I wanted this?" she snapped. "You think I wanted to be dragged into your war?"
"My war," I repeated.
She caught herself, jaw clenching. Too late.
I stared at her until she looked away first.
Then I turned and walked out.
She didn't stop me.
She didn't follow.
The bell over the gallery door chimed again when I left, bright and cheerful like it didn't understand what it was witnessing.
The street outside felt colder.
A car idled across the road.
Dark. Tinted.
The same one.
Or another that looked exactly like it.
I didn't stare.
I kept walking.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, a text.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Stop. Don't move.
I froze mid-step.
My shoulders stayed steady, but my pulse jumped hard enough to sting at my throat.
The air felt too open.
Too exposed.
I glanced toward a shop window and used the reflection instead of turning my head.
Two men were behind me. Not close. Not far. Walking like they belonged there. Like they weren't stalking.
My stomach dropped.
I kept my face blank and took three more steps, slow, controlled, then turned into the first side street without looking like I was running.
The street was narrower, darker. The city sounded different here, less music, more distant traffic, the hum of a world that didn't care.
A shadow moved near the end of the alley.
A man stepped out.
Young. Clean-cut. Suit too expensive for someone his age. No visible weapon.
But he didn't need to show one.
Because his posture did.
His eyes locked on mine, hard and unreadable.
"Mrs. DeLuca," he said.
Not Ivy.
Not ma'am.
Mrs. DeLuca.
Like he wanted to remind me of what was being stripped away.
I didn't correct him.
I didn't give him that power.
"I'm not interested," I said, stepping back instinctively.
His gaze flicked to my hand.
Bare.
His mouth twitched as if he noticed and filed it away.
"I'm not here to negotiate," he said calmly.
A second man appeared behind him, broader, heavier, face blank. He stayed half a step back, silent muscle.
I tightened my grip on my bag.
"Who are you," I asked, "and why are you following me."
The young man didn't react to my tone. He reached into his coat and pulled out a slim leather case.
He held it out.
"From the Don," he said.
The words hit like ice water.
From Vittorio.
My stomach clenched, rage rising hot, immediate.
"What is this," I said.
"Your exit," he replied.
I stared at him.
"My exit," I repeated.
He didn't blink.
"You were told to leave," he said. "The Don is making sure you do it properly."
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear the case out of his hand and throw it into the gutter.
Instead, I reached for it slowly and took it.
Leather. Heavy. Expensive.
Control wrapped in a gift.
I opened it.
Inside was a passport.
My throat tightened as soon as I saw the name.
Not DeLuca.
Not Mrs. DeLuca.
My original surname.
And under marital status:
Single.
Official. Clinical. Done.
I felt my vision sharpen, the world narrowing to that one word.
Single.
Like the marriage had never happened.
Like he'd erased me from history the way men erased women from rooms.
"You changed it," I said, voice low.
The young man's eyes stayed flat.
"The Don requested the correction," he replied. "Effective immediately."
Correction.
As if my life had been a clerical error.
I swallowed hard and turned the next pocket.
A black card slid out.
No logo.
No bank name.
Just a name embossed in gold.
DELUCA
My fingers curled around it.
"How much," I asked, because I already knew the answer wasn't "enough."
"Ten million," he said.
The number landed heavy.
Not generous.
Humiliating.
A leash.
A way to say: I can erase you and still fund your breathing.
My jaw clenched.
"Tell him to keep it," I said.
The young man's gaze sharpened slightly, the first sign of anything like emotion.
"That's not an option," he replied.
I laughed once, sharp.
"It's money," I said. "It's always an option."
He leaned in, voice dropping, meant only for me.
"It's not money," he said quietly. "It's a warning."
My skin went colder.
"A warning of what," I asked.
His eyes flicked past me, just once, toward the street behind.
"Of what happens when you make the Don look weak," he said.
My chest tightened.
"He did that himself," I spat.
The young man didn't react.
"He wants you out of the city tonight," he said. "This card makes sure you can do it. Use it."
"And if I don't," I asked.
The second man behind him shifted, subtle, but enough.
The young man's voice stayed calm.
"Then you become a problem."
There it was.
Not a threat shouted.
A fact spoken softly.
I stared at him.
"Why are you telling me this," I asked.
His gaze didn't soften.
"Because I was told to," he said.
Of course.
I closed the leather case.
My fingers tightened around it until the edges bit my palm.
"Tell him something," I said.
The young man waited.
I stepped closer, close enough that he had to hold his ground.
"Tell him," I said quietly, "that he doesn't get to rewrite me and call it mercy."
The young man's jaw flexed once.
"I'll pass the message," he said, but his eyes said he wouldn't.
He stepped back. The bigger man followed. They moved away like they'd never been there.
Like I'd imagined them.
Like fear was a ghost only women could see.
I stood alone in the alley, the leather case heavy in my hand.
Single.
Ten million.
A leash dressed up as a lifeline.
Across the street, the dark car was gone.
Or maybe it was just parked somewhere I couldn't see.
Either way, I could still smell Vittorio on my skin like a stain that didn't wash off.
I exhaled once, slow.
Then I pulled my phone out.
My fingers didn't shake.
Not because I wasn't scared.
Because fear didn't get to drive.
I scrolled past names I no longer trusted.
Past numbers that would never answer.
Then I opened the keypad and typed a number I hadn't used in years.
A number I'd promised myself I'd never call again.
The line rang once.
Twice.
A click.
A voice answered, male, rough, familiar enough to make my stomach tighten.
"Pronto."
I pressed the phone closer to my ear, eyes scanning the street, body still, mind sharp.
"Ho bisogno di aiuto*," I said.
Silence.
Then, low and immediate:
"Dove sei, Ivy?
I didn't answer.
Because I heard something behind me.
A footstep.
Too close.
And the leather case in my hand suddenly felt less like protection...
and more like a target.
*I need help