"No more, Enzo," I said, my voice dropping into something cold, something final. "I gave you ten years. Ten years of my life. I gave you everything I had. And all you ever did was take, take, take…" My throat tightened, but I forced myself to keep going. "You never once looked at me like I was your wife."
His expression hardened instantly, his eyes turning cold. The same face he wore across the table at sit-downs when a man owed tribute and came with excuses instead of cash. "Don't be dramatic. You know I had to marry you because of the kids. Catarina made me."
"And I stayed," I shot back, tears burning in my eyes. "For them. For you. I stayed when I should have left a long time ago. But not anymore."
I didn't wait for him to respond. I couldn't. If I did, I might break.
I pushed past him, my shoulder brushing against his chest, my vision blurred with tears I refused to let fall. "I'm leaving, Enzo. For good."
A sharp knock on the door startled both of us.
"Sir, it's time. Don Montecarlo's entrance," one of the household soldiers called from the hallway, his tone respectful but urgent.
Enzo exhaled, as if irritated by the interruption, and adjusted his tie, his expression smoothing over into that familiar mask of composure. That perfect, untouchable image he showed the world. His thumb ran along the edge of his jaw, slow, unconscious, as if the gesture could seal over whatever crack I'd just put in his armor.
"Come on, Seraphina," he said, as if nothing had just happened, as if I hadn't just told him I was leaving him. "Clean yourself up. You're still playing the piano for Don. We can discuss this nonsense later."
Nonsense.
That was all this was to him.
"No, Enzo," I said quietly, but firmly. "I said I'm done."
His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to grab me, to stop me. But in the end, he didn't.
Instead, he gave me one last cold, dismissive look before turning away. Without another word, he walked out and closed the door behind him softly, as if sealing everything that had just happened inside this room.
Like it didn't matter.
Like I didn't matter.
That was Enzo Montecarlo. Always pretending. Always smoothing things over. Always pushing everything inconvenient out of sight, burying it under layers of silence and omertà, that code he wielded not to protect the family but to protect himself from having to feel anything at all.