Clara Russo POV
The private aviation terminal was a fortress. Armed men in dark suits stood at every exit, their eyes tracking everything.
I sat in a corner armchair, drowning in a high-necked sweater to hide how thin I'd gotten, my face caked in foundation to mask the death pallor underneath. A dull cramp pulsed in my stomach, a ticking clock reminding me I was running out of time.
The double doors swung open, and Silas walked in.
The temperature in the room dropped.
He wore a tailored black suit that fit his broad shoulders like armor. His dark hair was swept back, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He moved with the cold, lethal stillness of a man who had killed and would kill again.
This wasn't the boy who'd promised me forever. This was the Don.
His eyes found mine, and a hot pressure built behind my own eyes. His gaze was hard, assessing, and utterly empty of the warmth I remembered.
He stopped a few feet from my chair. "I'm here to honor the blood marker. What do you want?"
I swallowed the knot in my throat. "I just wanted to see you."
"How long are you staying?" I asked.
"Three or four days." His tone was flat, disinterested.
He didn't ask about my health. He didn't notice the deep lines carved into my face, or how my hands were trembling, or that my sweater hung off my shoulders like a tent.
An associate stepped forward for his luggage. "The penthouse," Silas ordered, his eyes never leaving me. "I keep my own schedule."
I stood up slowly, gripping the armrest to steady a wave of dizziness. "There's a private espresso bar in the back."
I led him to the small counter. My hands found their old rhythm—two shots of espresso, a splash of cold water, no sugar. The one thing my body still remembered how to do for him.
I pushed the cup across the counter. He picked it up and took a slow sip, his dark eyes fixed on me over the rim.
"Your tastes have changed." He glanced at the plain hot water I'd poured for myself.
I used to drink black coffee with him every morning. Now the thought of its acidity made my stomach twist.
"People change," I said.
He set the cup down hard. "We used to debate. Which is harder—to walk away, or to hold on?"
My chest tightened. "I remember."
"You always said walking away was the coward's choice." He stepped closer. "And I argued for the agony of it. That it takes a man tearing out a piece of himself to leave someone he loves."
I forced myself to meet his eyes. "To hold on is the real test. Loyalty to the Famiglia. Standing in the fire and letting it burn you. You were right."
Silas slammed his hand on the marble counter. I flinched.
"You threw away five years like it meant nothing," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "How the hell is that anything but selfishness?"
The weight of the secret crushed down on me—the cancer, his mother's threats, the staged betrayal, all of it locked inside my chest like a coffin. I wanted to scream the truth at him. I wanted him to know that every word I'd said five years ago had been a lie to save his life.
Instead, a violent cough tore through my throat. I turned and pressed a napkin to my lips. When I pulled it away, there was a single bright spot of red on the white paper.
I crumpled it in my fist before he could see.
"You win, Silas," I rasped. "You win."
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