Chapter 5

Eventually, we ended up together.

I spent my days obsessing over the details of his life. I researched how to brew the perfect cup of Lavazza coffee, how to select the right Hermes cufflinks, and which Blue Note jazz vinyls to add to his collection. My life had no plan of its own; it simply revolved around him.

Meanwhile, Vince's life surged forward with unstoppable momentum.

He consolidated the family's power, rooted out dissenters, and was officially crowned the Godfather at twenty-three. Even the New York Post covered it—though they didn't dare use the words "mob boss," opting instead to call him a "rising titan of the shipping industry."

The contrast between us was a bitter irony.

I had abandoned my art to become his accessory.

The cruelty of my reality deepened when my parents were killed. They were on their way to see my gallery exhibition when a bomb planted in their car by a rival faction exploded.

The NYPD officially recorded it as an "accidental explosion due to mechanical failure," but I knew the truth. My father had refused to let his gallery be used for laundering money for a specific family.

Orphaned and shattered, I clutched their charred belongings in my arms and cried until I lost consciousness.

Vince knelt before me in the Brooklyn funeral home, under the somber, judging gaze of his father, and swore he would take care of me for the rest of his life.

A month later, we registered our marriage at City Hall.

There was no grand wedding and no guest list. Only two witnesses were present: his lawyer and my best friend.

After the marriage, the miscarriages began.

The first happened at six weeks, the second at ten, and the third at thirteen.

The doctors told me my body was "unfit for pregnancy" and suggested we consider surrogacy or adoption.

Vince said it didn't matter, but I could see the cold disappointment in his father's eyes. The Costello family demanded an heir.

My health deteriorated steadily. Insomnia, anxiety, and depression became my constant companions.

And then, Vince met Bella.

She was the daughter of his father's most trusted subordinate, a student at Columbia University studying international relations and criminology. She joined Vince's "company" as an intern and quickly rose to become his special assistant.

She could discuss the nuances of the arms market, territory partitioning strategies, and how to navigate FBI investigations. She could accompany him to the bloodiest of settings—underground boxing matches, smuggling docks, and family "clearing" sites.

All I could ever ask him was, "What would you like for dinner?" or "Does this tie match this suit?"

He began to find me hollow.

I could see it in the way he looked at me.

My eyes burned with a sudden heat.

When I opened them, the morning light was streaming into the room.

My pillow was wet again.

My phone buzzed with a text from Vince: Going to see my father this afternoon. Connecticut. Be ready by two.

I stared at the message and replied calmly: I can't go.

The phone rang immediately.

"Why?" Vince's voice carried a suppressed rage. "Ava, seriously. There is nothing between Bella and me. Why are you still holding onto this?"

Hearing him bring up Bella's name unprompted made me want to laugh.

Vince was a man of few words, yet this was the first time he had explained himself so many times regarding a single issue.

I wondered if he was trying to convince me, or himself.

A dull ache throbbed in my chest.

"I'm not feeling well. I have a doctor's appointment," I said.

I paused before continuing. "Besides, your father has a heart condition. He never liked me anyway—said I was too 'artistic' and didn't fit into this family. Why go there just to make his blood pressure rise?"

My voice remained steady. "Furthermore, doesn't he always say that someone like Bella is the right fit for the family? Take her instead."

I meant it as a sincere suggestion.

Vince, however, suddenly exploded.

"Fine. Keep throwing your tantrum. Just don't come crying to me later."

He slammed the phone down.

I listened to the dial tone and let out a short laugh.

This was the difference between being loved and being an inconvenience.

The Vince who once loved me would have panicked if I so much as knitted my brows, desperately asking what he had done wrong.

The Vince who didn't love me saw even my most sincere advice as a childish fit of pique.