At the Valente compound's formal sit-down, Don Lorenzo Valente finally answered her call, but only after confirming through his own people that the voice on the line truly belonged to Bianca Moretti.
"Bianca," his voice came through the receiver, smooth but glacial. "Three years ago, you did everything you could to protect Vittorio Barresi. You cut my calls. You severed all contact. You even had word sent that I should stay out of Frostmere Docks. And now, suddenly, you've changed your mind?"
He gave a low, humorless laugh. "What happened? Your husband didn't give you what you wanted?"
The room fell utterly silent. None of the capos seated around the long table dared to breathe too loudly.
In the old boroughs and the waterfront territories, two bloodlines ruled above all others: the Valentes and the Morettis.
And every made man in the city knew the story of Lorenzo and Bianca. They had grown up together, both from founding families whose fathers sat on the same Commission. Everyone thought they would one day be united in a sanctioned marriage, the kind of alliance that gets blessed at the cathedral and sealed with a toast from the old guard.
When Bianca left her family's household to study abroad near Frostmere, Lorenzo had followed, expanding his legitimate front businesses through the northern districts.
But three years ago, he'd come home without warning. Rumor said he came back with a returned ring and a broken heart.
Now, hearing the edge in his tone, Bianca replied evenly, "Yeah. I couldn't tell the difference between a husband and a warden."
That earned a scoff from the other end, the sound sharp and dismissive.
Taking the hint, Bianca didn't argue. "Forget it," she said coolly. "Pretend I never called."
She was just about to hang up when his voice came through again, low, commanding, carrying the weight of a Don's authority.
"Don't you dare, Bianca."
There was a pause, heavy with tension, before he continued, "Reconnect our lines. All of them. And send me the address of wherever you're staying."
"One month," he added firmly. "I'll come to Frostmere myself to bring you back. This time, you don't get to change your mind."
The sheer confidence in his voice made Bianca laugh quietly, almost in disbelief. "Alright," she said.
Later, in Vittorio's private study, Bianca placed two sets of papers into the wall safe: her signed departure from the Barresi front operations and the annulment decree, both bearing Vittorio's signature.
Then she drew out a glass jar filled with soft, gray ash, the remains of ninety-nine letters she'd written to him over the years.
She uncorked the jar, letting the faint scent of burnt paper fill the air, and took out the old photographs, pictures that once held memories of them together.
One by one, she dropped them into the fireplace.
The flames flickered high, golden at first, then dimmed to a low, guttering blue.
With each fragment consumed, another piece of hope turned to dust.
When the jar was finally full, so was her disappointment.
Moments later, Vittorio returned to the room. The sharp scent of smoke pricked his senses, making him pause in the doorway.
"What are you burning?" he demanded.
Bianca shifted slightly, blocking his view of the fireplace. "Just some old papers," she replied, her voice calm but cold.
Vittorio's brows drew together. Through the smoke, he glimpsed something charred, maybe the edge of a photograph, or perhaps a letter.
But before he could get closer, a woman's soft, teary voice called from the hallway.
Just like that, Vittorio turned on his heel and rushed out while Bianca quickly finished tidying up and followed him out.
At the threshold, she saw him holding Viviana's hand, his mouth brushing against her fingertip as he drew away a single drop of blood. His eyes were filled with tenderness Bianca had never seen turned her way.
"I'm so sorry, Bianca," Viviana said sweetly, her voice laced with false innocence. "I didn't mean to bother you this late."
"But the portrait on the wall," she added quickly, feigning a wince, "it's hung too low. I scratched my finger on the frame. It's really dangerous."
Bianca's chest stirred, not from jealousy but from scorn.
That portrait had been hanging there for three years without harming a soul. And now, the first day she walked in, it just happened to "cut" her.
No, the problem wasn't the picture. It was the bride frozen inside it.
But before Bianca could respond, Vittorio cut in sharply, his tone carrying the weight of command.
"She's right. That portrait's in the way. Bianca, have someone take it down and move it to the storage room."
Out of Vittorio's line of sight, Viviana cast Bianca a triumphant little smirk, a silent declaration of war.
Bianca might no longer love Vittorio, but she wasn't about to make things easy for the woman who'd stolen her place under his roof.
"The storage room's already full," she said flatly. "There's no space left."
Her quiet defiance made Vittorio's jaw tighten.
Viviana, ever the actress, drew in a small, pitiful gasp, clutching her barely scratched finger as if she'd been slashed with a blade. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
"Ouch… Vittorio… it really hurts."
That was all it took for Vittorio to snap at her.
"Then burn those damn portraits!"
