The Don's Favorite lover Vanished (by Melissa Z) novel Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

The next morning unfolded in the opulent confines of a private room at a three-Michelin-star restaurant in Florence, where the air was thick with the scent of rich truffles and simmering sauces. I sat at the polished table, my gaze locked onto the three Russos seated across from me, each one a pillar of tension in this charged atmosphere.

Beside me, my father, Lorenzo Rossi, exuded a quiet ferocity, akin to a lion poised to pounce. His presence was both reassuring and intimidating, a silent guardian ready to defend at a moment’s notice.

The old Don Russo, his face weathered by time and experience, leaned forward slightly, his voice a low rumble. “Lorenzo,” he began, a hint of regret lacing his words, “I must apologize for my son’s reckless actions.”

An incredulous scoff escaped my father’s lips. “An apology?” he spat, his tone dripping with disdain. “Your son nearly got my daughter killed. Do you honestly believe that mere words will suffice?”

Elena, Vincenzo’s mother, turned her sorrowful gaze towards me, her eyes brimming with guilt. “Chiara, my child…”

I interrupted her, my voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Signora,” I said, maintaining a veneer of politeness while my words carried an edge sharper than glass. “I ceased being your child a long time ago.”

At that moment, the door swung open with a force that echoed through the room, and Vincenzo entered like a tempest, his expression dark and brooding, a storm brewing within him.

“Vincenzo!” the old Don bellowed, his voice reverberating off the walls. “What possessed you to come here?!”

“This concerns me,” Vincenzo shot back, striding towards me with an air of determination, disregarding my father’s warning glare. He reached for my hand, an act of defiance that sent a jolt of anger through my father.

In an instant, the cold metal of my father’s gun pressed against Vincenzo’s temple, a stark reminder of the danger that lingered in the air. “Get your filthy hands,” Lorenzo’s voice dripped with ice, “off my daughter.”

With a slow, reluctant movement, Vincenzo withdrew his hand, but the fire in his eyes remained. “Father,” he said, casting a glance at the old Don, “the Russo family is prepared to establish a one-billion-euro art endowment, right here in Florence.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air.

“I want Chiara,” he declared, his gaze piercing mine, “to be the chief advisor for this fund.”

A laugh escaped my lips—not a warm, inviting sound, but a cold, mocking chuckle that filled the space between us.

“Don Russo,” I stood, addressing him with the utmost formality, “two years ago, your son unceremoniously dismissed me, handing me a severance of one hundred thousand dollars. Now he attempts to buy me back for a billion?”

I surveyed the faces of the Russo family, my expression challenging. “That’s quite an increase in price, wouldn’t you agree?”

Vincenzo’s complexion drained of color, while the old Don and Elena looked as if they had been struck.

“I’m not buying you!” Vincenzo growled, his frustration palpable.

“Then what exactly are you doing?” I pressed forward, my anger igniting into a blazing fire. “Are you trying to trap me with a job? Bribe me with money? Do you expect me to fall back into line like a naive fool?”

“It’s not about control!” he insisted, his voice rising in pitch.

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