The Don's Favorite lover Vanished (by Melissa Z) novel Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

“Vincenzo!” Katerina’s voice pierced the air, a mix of triumph and fear dancing in her eyes like a flickering flame. “She tried to kill me! She betrayed the family! According to the rules, you must execute her yourself!”

Execute me.

The weight of those words hung in the space between us, heavy and suffocating. I locked my gaze with Vincenzo’s, my heart racing as I awaited his verdict.

His finger tightened on the trigger, a subtle yet ominous movement that sent a shiver down my spine. His dark eyes were a tempest, swirling with emotions that eluded my understanding—rage, conflict, and a flicker of what looked like exhaustion.

Time seemed to freeze, the world around us fading into a blur.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice steady and deliberate, each word a carefully chosen weapon.

“Marco.”

From the shadows, Marco emerged, stepping forward with a sense of purpose. “Yes, Boss.”

“Get her,” Vincenzo commanded, his gun still trained on me, but his focus was entirely on Marco. “And throw her off the estate.”

Katerina’s sobs halted abruptly, her expression shifting to one of disbelief as she processed his words. “Vincenzo, you…”

He ignored her, his gaze unwavering, still locked onto me as if I were a puzzle he could not solve.

“Cut her off. Freeze her accounts. Strike her from the family records.” His orders came out in rapid succession, each one slicing through the air like a bullet. “I don’t want to see this face in Chicago ever again.”

He paused, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife, before delivering the final blow.

“Tell everyone, from this night on, Chiara Rossi is a traitor to the Russo family. Anyone who aids her becomes my enemy.”

With those words, he branded me a traitor, stripping me of everything I had ever known, leaving me utterly alone.

He tossed me out of his world as if I were nothing more than a discarded piece of refuse.

The pain was more profound than any bullet wound; it shattered my heart into countless pieces.

My hand went slack, the knife slipping from my fingers and clattering to the ground.

Katerina continued to glare at me, her eyes filled with pure venom.

But I was beyond caring now.

Marco stepped forward, gripping my arm with an unyielding force, dragging me from the place I had once called home.

Two guards flanked us, disarming me with ruthless efficiency. They pulled me through the meticulously manicured lawns, past the elegant fountains, and out the grand gates like I was nothing more than a sack of garbage.

With a harsh shove, they tossed me onto the unforgiving asphalt, and I could hear the gates grinding shut behind me, sealing off two worlds forever.

A laugh bubbled up from my throat, mingling with the bitter taste of blood as I began to cough violently.

In that moment, a sleek black Mercedes glided silently to a halt beside me.

The door swung open, revealing one of my father’s men, his expression unreadable.

“Miss. Get in.”

Inside the back seat lay a briefcase, its contents promising a new beginning. I opened it to find a new set of identity papers.

The photo was unmistakably me, but the name was foreign—Bella Fiore.

Occupation: Art Dealer.

Place of Birth: Florence, Italy.

“Ready,” I affirmed, my voice stronger than I felt.

I retrieved the black diamond phoenix necklace, the one that had fallen into the blood at the party—a relic of a life I was leaving behind.

I examined it, the broken, blood-stained bird a haunting reminder of my past.

Then, with a heavy heart, I rose and walked to the trash can in the lounge, opening my palm to release it.

It landed with a soft, dull thud, echoing the weight of my lost ten years.

The boarding announcement crackled over the speakers, slicing through the silence.

“Now boarding, flight to Florence.”

I stood, grabbing my carry-on bag, a sense of finality washing over me.

With a swift motion, I pulled the SIM card from my old phone, the small piece of plastic feeling both precious and worthless in my hands.

With a decisive snap, I broke it in two, the pieces joining the necklace in the trash—a symbolic severing from my past.

I slipped on my sunglasses, turning my face toward the gate, ready to embrace whatever lay ahead.

“I’m ready, Papa.”

I took my father’s arm, walking toward the gate with purpose.

Behind us, the bright lights of Chicago shimmered like a distant memory, a city filled with ghosts that no longer held any claim on me.

Chiara Rossi was dead. And I was stepping away from her grave, ready to forge a new identity.