The night air hit my skin like cold silk. I drove myself to Ristorante Luca, a place tucked behind an unassuming facade on the Upper East Side where the wine list ran longer than most novels and the clientele knew better than to ask questions. I ordered a bone-in ribeye, a half-bottle of Barolo, and a whole Maine lobster. I ate slowly, savoring every bite with the quiet satisfaction of a woman spending her own money in a world that wanted her to be grateful for crumbs.
With my own tribute, my own earnings, I could dine wherever I pleased.
I stayed out well past midnight, lingering over an espresso and a second glass of wine, watching the city pulse through floor-to-ceiling windows. There was no rush. There was nothing to rush back to.
When I finally returned to the estate, every light was out. The house sat in total darkness, silent as a mausoleum. Despite me being gone for hours, not a single call. Not a single message. No one had checked in. No one had wondered if I was safe, if I'd been followed, if I'd driven off a bridge. They had simply gone to bed, each of them, without a second thought for the woman who kept the roof over their heads and the wolves from their door.
I navigated the darkened hallway by memory, my fingers trailing along the cool plaster walls until I reached the bedroom. I pushed the door open, crossed to the bed, and sat down on the edge of the mattress.
A scream shattered the silence.
"Ah!"
My hand found the bedside lamp. Light flooded the room in a warm, merciless glow, and there she was. Rosalia Vitale, lying in my spot, her dark hair fanned across my pillow, the sheets pulled up to her collarbone as though she belonged there.
Something detonated behind my ribs. Five years of swallowed fury, of bitten tongues and clenched fists and quiet, corrosive patience. It all converged into a single, white-hot point. Before I could think, before reason had any chance of intervening, my hand connected with her face. The crack of the slap echoed off the bedroom walls like a gunshot.
Rosalia crumpled, clutching her cheek, tears spilling instantly. Enzo shot upright beside her, his arm sweeping around her shoulders like a shield. "Why did you hit her? We were just talking and must have fallen asleep. It was an accident."
"An accident." I tasted the word, and it was ash. "So you accidentally ended up in bed together. Holding each other. In my bed. That's the story you're going with."
"We were waiting for you!" Enzo's voice rose, defensive and loud, the volume compensating for the weakness of the argument. "You were out until God knows when, so Rosalia stayed to keep me company. We talked for a while, and then we fell asleep. It's perfectly normal."
"Then why didn't you call me? Why didn't you send a single message?" I held up my phone, the screen bare of notifications, and let him see it. "Too busy catching up with your old neighborhood flame? And the two of you couldn't wait in the living room? You had to come to the bedroom, to my side of the bed?"
Enzo's face darkened, his jaw set in that stubborn, cornered expression I'd come to know so well over five years. "You're being unreasonable, Camilla."
I was done. Done arguing with a man who couldn't see what was right in front of him because he refused to open his eyes. I turned to Rosalia, who was still curled against the headboard, tears tracking mascara down her cheeks in thin, theatrical lines.
"I'm back now. So why don't you leave?" My voice was quiet, controlled, each word placed with surgical precision. "Or were you planning for all three of us to share the bed?"
Rosalia didn't acknowledge me. She didn't even look in my direction. She pressed her palm to her reddened cheek and turned her face toward Enzo, her lower lip trembling. "Enzo, it really hurts."
Enzo's entire body softened. The anger, the defensiveness, all of it dissolved in an instant, replaced by a tenderness he had never once shown me. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from beneath her eyes. "I'll get you some medicine."
