There's an old Sicilian proverb: a man is a king from the waist up, a beast from the waist down.
They can so clearly separate the woman in their heart from the woman beneath them.
Privately, I thought Mario was a world-class liar.
He had acted so well, so convincingly, that I'd once believed he had truly given me sanctuary.
And I, desperate to repay the debt of my life, had used every trick in the book to please him.
This time was no different. I met his brutal passion with my most convincing moans.
In truth, I was a liar too.
In moments when I should have been lost to passion, my only concern was whether my performance was seductive enough.
Back then, I didn't care about my own pleasure; I just had to ensure my savior was satisfied.
I had placed his masculine need to conquer on a pedestal.
Ironically, his sweat and gasps were all a lie.
He was like a king, desperate to prove he possessed the "perfect trophy," and I was that trophy.
He would get his satisfaction from me, and then he could go welcome his queen with a clear conscience.
He never turned on the lights when we had sex. I used to think it was just one of his quirks.
Now I realize it was because, with the lights on, he couldn't pretend I was Priya.
In all these years, I had never once defied him in bed.
This time was no different.
He's my savior, after all. I had to keep him placated for now.
I couldn't show any cracks in my facade until I had liquidated my secret assets—the off-the-books classical art and real estate.
That night, he was insatiable.
Though I felt numb inside, I played along with feigned passion.
The next morning, I dragged my exhausted body out of bed to straighten his tie and fix his cufflinks.
This time, he didn't kiss my forehead and say, "My good girl," like he used to.
Instead, his expression was cold. He casually picked up his jacket from the sofa, his tone distant.
"Don't touch my things from now on."
His eyes were filled with annoyance.
I sneered inwardly, but on the surface, I forced a tearful, devastated expression.
"What's wrong, Don? Didn't you say you loved it when I took care of everything for you?"
After all these years, playing the part of the weak, dependent woman was second nature.
His gaze flickered for a moment.
"I'll have the limited-edition Aston Martin delivered to you this afternoon."
It was probably a pang of guilt. Seeing my hurt expression, a flicker of pity had crossed his face.
Hearing this, I immediately broke into a smile, my eyes crinkling, looking just like a child who'd been given candy.
"I won't be back tonight. Have the driver pick you up tomorrow afternoon to accompany me to a family meeting."
He scoffed at my shallow display.
Although I couldn't care less if he came back, for the sake of that vintage sports car, I stood on my toes, wrapped my arms around his neck like a snake, and planted a loud kiss on his cheek.
"Oh, the Don isn't coming home... My nights will be so long and lonely," I whined.
Mario impassively pushed me off him—the parasitic vine clinging to his body—and pulled a briefcase full of cash from a drawer.
"Then go have some fun."
The moment Mario left, I wiped my mouth where I had kissed him, then opened my encrypted laptop to forge the new identity documents Lorenzo had sent.
In a month, at most, I would vanish from the face of the earth.
Before that, I had to find a way to liquidate the art and estates in my possession.
