Betrayed by My Mafia Brother novel Chapter 55

Chapter 7

Regret about what?

Was he sorry for being with me, or sorry for leaving me?

Over the years I’d read stories about him-how his career had stalled, how critics whispered he’d run out of ideas.

Some people said his brilliance had faded; others said I’d ruined his trajectory.

Maybe he believed that too-that if I hadn’t made that scene, his progress would have been uninterrupted.

Frankly, I didn’t need to worry about Adrian’s fate.

A broken ship still has plenty of nails left; he would manage.

He was, and always had been, far wealthier than I.

I caught Stella’s eye and she understood instantly.

She grabbed a broom and shoved Adrian out the door.

“Can’t you hear us? We don’t serve people like you here.”

“If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police. Go-get out and stop ruining our business.”

The dusty broom left a smear on his expensive suit that wouldn’t come out.

Adrian paused and offered a helpless, almost rueful smile. “I see how it is.”

Before he left, he slid a bank card across the counter.

I checked it-the balance looked to be around five million.

Stella insisted I keep it, insisting, “Even five hundred million couldn’t repay what he owes you.”

Then she frowned and peered at me like she was interrogating a secret. “When you divorced, you didn’t walk away with nothing, did you?” she asked bluntly.

“Adrian’s so rich-there’s no way you’d still be running this little deli if you hadn’t taken something.”

I had indeed walked away with nothing.

It wasn’t pride that kept me from his money; I simply couldn’t win the fight.

My outburst at the planetarium had humiliated him in public; he wanted to punish me properly.

He hired lawyers, and on the courthouse steps he made it plain: everything I owned had come through him.

“Lillian,” he said coldly, “I can take back whatever I gave you at any time. People must be held accountable for what they do. You broke our agreement-there must be consequences.”

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At the time, being forced to leave with nothing was almost merciful.

Adrian wanted to make his mistress whole, to humiliate me into ruin; he even schemed to saddle me with

crippling debt after the divorce.

When someone has intelligence and influence, they don’t need elaborate plots to crush someone ordinary-

just a few signatures and the world tips in their favor.

In the end, he didn’t finish me off.

Maybe I lowered my head and made it easy, or maybe he didn’t want to waste the energy.

He left me some support money-tens of thousands-as consolation for the baby I’d lost.

But my condition was so fragile then that the funds evaporated in months.

Therapy costs, medication, doctor’s visits-everything drained what little we had.

My parents spent their savings trying to patch me back together; they took me from doctor to doctor, and

even tried a variety of desperate remedies.

For a long time I blamed myself for my father’s death.

If it hadn’t been for me, he might not have worked so hard into his old age.

If it hadn’t been for me, he might not have been consumed by guilt.

Adrian hurt me-and in hurting me, I hurt them.

Those emotional debts tangle up like a knotted ball of yarn, impossible to unwind.

Lately, though, I’ve begun to understand something else: love isn’t tidy.

You can’t always make sense of it; some things simply happen, and fate has its own strange way of

arranging lives.

Stella, listening, could no longer hold it in and threw her small arms around me.

She rested her furry hat against my chest and whispered, “You took me in when I had nothing. Why would

you risk being hurt by people again?”

I told her I wasn’t afraid.

My therapist had long ago taught me that doing good is never wrong.

“It wasn’t me who did wrong,” I told Stella. “It was them. I won’t punish myself for other people’s sins, and I won’t choose to hate everyone because of what they did.”

I’d found Stella that spring outside the deli-she’d come to Havenport with nothing but a duffel bag and a

ripped ticket, scammed out of her wages and stranded.

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Hungry and too proud to beg, she had no one to turn to.

I softened and let her stay, gave her small chores and a place to sleep.

It felt as natural as rescuing a stray cat or dog on the street-something I couldn’t not do.

Even if everything repeated a hundred times, I’d still bring someone in from the cold.

I couldn’t bear the thought of eight-year-old Adrian freezing in a stairwell, or a teenage Nora’s future being buried before it began.

Stella nodded and kissed me on the cheek. “Lillian, you’re the best,” she said. “If he lost someone like you so good, then let him regret it for the rest of his life.”

Whether he had regrets, I couldn’t say.

All I knew was that our meeting that day was a pebble tossed into a pond-no ripples lasted long enough to

carry meaning.

I didn’t dwell on it.

But unexpectedly, Nora came looking for me.

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Chapter 8

Seven years had passed, and the woman who once sold flowers on street corners had transformed

completely.

Nora now wore flawless makeup and designer clothes. The gentle curve of her stomach made her seem even more regal, as if she’d finally bloomed into the flower Adrian had so carefully cultivated.

He’d tended to her well-too well, perhaps.

Yet behind the polish in Nora’s eyes, there was always a flicker of exhaustion that no luxury could hide.

She poured a box of cash onto my counter, her tone cold and imperious. “Lillian, you really have no shame,”

she said.

“You’ve been divorced from Adrian for years. Stop clinging to him.”

“I understand-you don’t want to lose the title of Mrs. Vale. But you lost. Admit it with dignity.”

“Out of respect for the help you once gave me, I’ll help you this one last time.” She pushed a stack of papers toward me. “This is more than enough for you to live comfortably for the rest of your life.”

“Take the money and disappear. Don’t ever show up in front of Adrian again.”

Her voice was pitched just a little too high-arrogance straining to mask unease.

I stayed quiet for a beat, then slapped her across the face.

“This is for what you owe me.”

Another strike landed hard. “This one’s for the child who never got to live.”

A third followed. “And this-this is for the classmates whose chances you stole.”

By the time my wrist began to ache, I’d struck her nearly eight times.

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