The Don's Favorite lover Vanished (by Melissa Z) novel Chapter 24

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**The Story of a Girl Who Loved a Man Made Entirely of Secrets**

**Chapter 24**

Chiara’s Perspective

An hour had passed since I found myself standing alone in the breathtaking expanse of Piazzale Michelangelo, a place that had always felt like a dream. The sun hung low in the sky, casting an ethereal glow over the city of Florence, its beauty almost overwhelming.

Suddenly, a black helicopter sliced through the serene atmosphere, descending rapidly from the heavens. The gusts of wind it generated whipped around me, tugging at my hair and clothes, a chaotic contrast to the tranquil surroundings.

As the helicopter’s door slid open with a mechanical hiss, my heart raced. There he was—Vincenzo—standing tall and imposing, his hand extended toward me, an invitation wrapped in mystery.

His expression was a labyrinth of emotions, a complex puzzle that I found impossible to decipher. I felt a strange mix of apprehension and longing, but without a moment’s hesitation, I stepped forward and climbed aboard.

The helicopter lifted off, soaring over the enchanting Florence skyline, the sprawling cityscape shrinking beneath us. We glided over the majestic Apennine mountains, their peaks dusted with snow, and finally descended onto a heavily fortified private estate nestled deep in the Alps, a place seemingly cut off from the rest of the world.

It was both enchanting and chilling, as if I had stumbled into a fairy tale that had taken a dark turn. The isolation of the estate wrapped around me like a cold embrace, making me feel both captivated and imprisoned.

Vincenzo guided me into the main house, and as I crossed the threshold, I felt a sudden jolt of recognition.

I froze, my breath hitching in my throat.

This place… it mirrored a fantasy I had once sketched on a forgotten piece of paper, a vision of happiness I thought I had long buried.

A house adorned with a white picket fence, a quaint little garden bursting with flowers—our home, a sanctuary of love and warmth.

“Do you like it?” His voice broke through my reverie, hoarse and uncertain, echoing in the vastness of the room. “It took me three months to build. Every detail is exactly as you drew it.”

“The future we were supposed to have,” I murmured, the weight of my words hanging heavily in the air.

“The future you threw away,” I corrected him, my tone flat and devoid of emotion, a stark reminder of the chasm that lay between us.

As I stepped into the living room, my gaze was drawn to the wall where a solitary photograph hung—our only picture together, captured in the enchanting canals of Venice.

In the kitchen, I spotted the luxurious French cookware I had once mentioned in passing, a detail he had tucked away in the recesses of his mind.

Upstairs, in the bedroom, two books lay on the nightstand, one by Calvino and the other by Dante—my favorites, the very essence of my literary soul.

Pushing open another door, I was met with a nursery, its pink walls radiating warmth, a white cradle waiting patiently, surrounded by a delightful assortment of toys.

Everything was precisely as I had envisioned it, a haunting echo of dreams that felt both comforting and suffocating.

“Vincenzo,” I said, my voice cold and steady. “What is this?”

“I wanted you to see it,” he replied, following me into the room, his footsteps echoing in the silence. He approached the wall and pressed a hidden switch, revealing a concealed panel that slid open to unveil a safe. From within, he retrieved my sketches, my dreams laid bare.

“I saw them,” he said, spreading them out on the cradle’s sheets, each one treated like a sacred relic. “I saw your plans, your dreams… our dreams.”

“Those weren’t our dreams,” I interrupted sharply. “They were my fantasy—an illusion you shattered with your own hands.”

“It’s not broken!” His voice cracked, desperation spilling out in waves. “I can fix it! Look, it’s all here! I built the garden you wanted, I bought the piano you liked, I even have the names you picked out for our children!”