Grazia's POV
Only a few seconds after I posted the photos, my phone lit up like a switchboard. Notifications stacked on top of each other, one after another. I read through the reactions slowly, deliberately, the way you'd read a hand of cards laid face-up on the table. Not a single one came from Simone's crew. Not Rocco, not Dario, not Luca. I doubted they hadn't seen it. They'd seen it. They were probably already on the phone with him, huddled around the back booth at the social club, figuring out how to contain the damage.
Let them.
Before long, my phone was buzzing without pause. My parents. The Valente household. Simone himself, calling and calling like a man who'd just realized the front door of his empire had been left unlocked. I ignored every one. I typed a single message to my mother: I'll be home later. I'll fill you in when I get there.
I packed my things quickly. The overnight bag, the documents, the bottle of painkillers the doctor had pressed into my hand with a look that said more than her words had. I was almost to the door when I saw the black sedan pulling into the driveway of the townhouse. The engine hadn't even died before Simone was out, his door slamming hard enough to echo off the stone facade. He crossed the distance like a man who still believed that closing space meant closing an argument.
"Grazia! What's going on? You got rid of our baby just because I gave her an heir?"
I stared at him. The light from the porch caught the hard line of his jaw, the vein pulsing at his temple. He looked like his father in that moment. Not the composed Don the old man had been at the end, but the younger version, the one who'd thrown a chair through a plate-glass window when someone defied him at a sit-down.
"And why didn't you ever tell me you were carrying?"
His questions came rapid, stacked, each one louder than the last. The nausea rolled through me, but it wasn't the surgery. It was the sound of a man who believed his anger was the most important thing in the room. I wasn't in the mood to argue. I brushed past him, grabbed my suitcase, and headed for the door.
His hand closed around my arm. The grip was firm, the kind of hold he'd learned from years of grabbing men by the collar in back rooms and expecting them to stay grabbed. "Is this some kind of game to you? I told you I'd cut ties with her after the baby. I've made sacrifices for you. What more do you want me to do?"
His shameless words hit me, and I couldn't hold back any longer. I slapped him. The sound cracked through the quiet street like a gunshot, and for one frozen second, neither of us moved.
"Stop ruining your real relationship for me. You know what? Your right hand is correct. Just do what you really want."
"I'm not worth it, right? You should find someone better."
"I sent you the divorce papers. Don't forget to sign them as soon as possible."
I broke free and walked out. My arm burned where his fingers had been, but my legs were steady. The suitcase wheels clattered against the flagstone path, and behind me, his voice followed like a threat he didn't know how to make good on.
"Stay, or I won't take you back when you come crawling!"
Come back? Not a chance. Honestly, I should have been thanking him. This had made me realize I'd be better off without the Valente name, the Valente house, and every poisoned thing that came with both.
When I got home, my parents were waiting in the front room. The lamps were on, the curtains drawn. My father sat in his chair by the window with the stillness of a man who'd already heard the worst and was deciding what to do about it. My mother's eyes were red. She'd been crying.
When I told them about Simone's arrangement with Silvana, about the secret heir, about what it meant for the alliance between our families, my mother pulled me in for a tight hug. Her arms shook. "I told you," she whispered into my hair. "I told you he'd only hurt you."
