The Don's Favorite lover Vanished (by Melissa Z) novel Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

As I stepped out of the fortified structure, the biting Chicago wind wrapped around me like a cold, unwelcome embrace. The chill penetrated my bones, a stark reminder of the world outside the safety of those walls.

Across the bustling street, I spotted him—Vincenzo. He stood there, a lone figure amidst the chaos, attempting to present an image of control. Clad in an expensive Brioni suit, he was trying to cling to the last vestiges of a Don’s dignity, but the bloodshot eyes and the weariness etched into his features betrayed him.

When our gazes locked, he dropped the cigarette he had been nursing, the ember extinguishing against the pavement as he strode toward me with purpose.

“What are you doing here?” I halted in my tracks, the words sharp and unyielding. Instantly, my bodyguards shifted behind me, positioning themselves to shield me from whatever storm he might bring.

“I heard about the hearing,” he rasped, his voice rough around the edges, as if he had been screaming into the void.

“And?” I replied, the disdain dripping from my words. “Here to collect the bodies?”

“No,” he shot back, a hint of desperation lacing his tone.

“Then what? Are you here to interrogate me about why I dared to touch your people?” My words were laced with mockery, a thin veneer over the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

“I’m not here for them!” His voice cracked, revealing the raw emotion he struggled to contain. “I’m here for you!”

Ignoring the plea in his voice, I turned my back and began walking toward my car.

In an instant, he surged forward, arms outstretched as if to physically block my escape.

“Chiara, please,” he implored, his voice trembling with an urgency that tugged at something deep within me. “Just give me five minutes.”

I paused, glancing between him and my bodyguards. “Stand down,” I ordered, and they reluctantly stepped back, allowing the space between us to thrum with tension.

I chose not to get into the car. Instead, I stood there, exposed on a busy street, surrounded by our men, my gaze fixed on him with an icy detachment.

“Speak your mind here,” I commanded, my voice low yet piercing, cutting through the air like a blade. “Let everyone witness what the once-great Don Russo has to say to me in this moment.”

His complexion shifted, a flush of color rising to his cheeks only to drain away, leaving him pale and vulnerable. Yet, he chose to comply, the weight of my challenge pressing down on him.

“I’m sorry,” he began, the words seeming to claw their way out of him. “I know I was wrong. I…”

With a swift motion, I pulled out my phone, activating the recording feature, and turned the screen toward him, the glow illuminating his shame.

“Go on,” I prompted, my voice cold and unyielding. “For posterity. So you cannot deny this moment later.”

A tremor coursed through Vincenzo, his body betraying the turmoil within. Pain and humiliation flickered in his eyes, yet he pressed on, compelled by something deeper than pride.

“I was blind. I was a fool. I destroyed everything with my own hands,” he confessed, his voice dwindling to a whisper thick with regret. “Chiara, if you can find it in your heart to forgive me… Anything. Money? Power? You can have all of Chicago. Just say the word.”

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