This photo was the ‘confession photo‘ he had taken with his own hands.
When she was at her most vulnerable, he had forced her to admit, “It’s all my fault.”
Now, as he stared at her hollow eyes, he recalled the first words she had spoken after regaining consciousness.
It was not “The baby is gone, nor “I’m in so much pain“, but-
“How is your mother?”
His eyes had been red with rage back then as he pinched her chin, “You’re only asking now? It’s too late! My mother is
dead! Because of you!”
She stared at him blankly, silent tears streaming down her entire face. She did not say another word.
Later, she truly worked tirelessly to pay off this debt. She attended business banquets on his behalf and drank until she suffered a stomach hemorrhage, she took a bullet for him from a rival, she cleaned up the countless messes left by all
those “Lenas“, she secured the smuggling route through New York Harbor for him….
Everyone agreed Vincent’s wife was unfailingly generous and forbearing, that he had landed himself a formidable Mafia
Donna who could hold down the fort through any crisis.
It turned out that even the most resilient person could have their heart broken beyond repair. It turned out that debts
could be paid off in full.
Years of experience gave Vincent a momentary burst of confidence. He was convinced this was just another new trick of that woman. She had put on countless acts just to make him “stay faithful“. This one was really clever, even the news
coverage looked completely real.
As these thoughts crossed his mind, the car glided into the De Luca Family Estate. Just when he thought he would see her any second, he noticed the keypad lock on the main door had been changed. He tried several combinations- their
wedding anniversary, her birthday, the date the family’s headquarters was established, all wrong.
Until the lock beeped with a notification: (Too many incorrect password attempts. Temporarily locked for 30 minutes)
The wind swept through the courtyard, blowing his shirt tight against his back. He felt oddly cold. He had never
imagined that one day, this door would shut him out.
He pulled out his phone to call her, scrolling through his contacts until he landed on “Wite” He dialed, but it went
straight to a busy tone
A patrol car carrying the estate’s Soldiers pulled up slowly. “Don? Do you need assistance?”
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“Donna‘ he paused for a beat, ‘has she come back today?”
‘Donna has not returned since she left last night,” the Soldier said respectfully, holding out a brown manila envelope.
“She also told me to give this to you.”
Vincent opened it, and inside was a stack of photos. All of them were candid shots of his infidelities over the past seven years. There was also a handwritten note, with only one line: [The debt is paid. We are even from now on.]
He stared at that line for a long, long time. Suddenly he crumpled the paper into a ball and hurled it violently at the
wall. “Paid? Isabella, do you really think you can pay it off?”
After the Soldier left. Vincent leaned against the wall and lit a cigar. The smoke curled upward, blurring his unreadable,
dark expression.
He suddenly remembered many years ago, when Isabella first found out he was cheating. She had asked him through.
red, teary eyes, “Vincent Vitale, what exactly am I to you?”
What had he said back then?
Oh right, he had said. “You are my Donna. You always will be.”
Then he had bowed his head to kiss her, kissing away her tears, kissing her until she went soft in his arms, kissing her
until she forgave him.
This same scene repeated itself countless times after that. He gradually got the rhythm down–cheat, get caught, cold
war, win her back, on loop. It was like a pre–programmed game, and he always held the cheat code.
That code was: Isabella loved him. Loved him enough to tolerate everything.
But today, that code seemed to have stopped working.
Thirty minutes later, he walked back to the door and entered that long–forgotten date. The date they had lost their first
child.
*Beep-*
The door unlocked. The entryway light flipped on automatically, illuminating the completely empty space inside.
In the bedroom, every single item that had belonged to Isabella was gone. Half the walk–in closet was empty, the vanity
was spotless.
Vincent walked into the bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror. There was a lipstick stain from another
woman on his neck, every inch of his body carried traces of his reckless indulgence.
He suddenly lifted his hand and scrubbed at it in disgust. His skin turned raw and red from the friction, and that garish
red mark finally faded.
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But some things could never be erased.
Chapter 8
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
