The Mafia Boss's Secret Lover (by Z·Nyra) novel Chapter 1

**Broken Skies Heal by George Orwell**

**Chapter 1**

“Penthouse. Tonight. 9 PM. Don’t be late.”

The message from Gabriel sent a jolt of adrenaline racing through my veins. After a decade of slipping into ground-floor apartments, the thought of being summoned to a penthouse was almost surreal.

He must be ready to announce us. He has to be. I slipped into the red dress he had gifted me just last month, the one that had made his eyes darken with desire, igniting a fire within me that I had never known before.

As the private elevator ascended, I felt as if I were rising toward a dream. My reflection in the golden doors revealed a woman intoxicated by the intoxicating haze of hope. How naive I was.

Stupid girl.

The doors slid open, revealing a world I had once mistaken for paradise. “You’re here,” Dominic’s voice, deep and rich, resonated through the air.

He stood there, framed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sprawling city of New Orleans glimmering below like a treasure trove of conquered jewels. In that moment, he looked like a god. My god.

“I’ve never been up here before,” I breathed, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“No,” he replied, crossing the space between us with three purposeful strides.

“You haven’t.”

And then, without warning, his lips crashed onto mine—possessive, brutal, yet achingly perfect. He pressed me against the glass, overlooking the city that I had foolishly believed would finally be mine.

“Say you’re mine,” I gasped, desperation clawing at my throat.

He didn’t respond. He never did.

Afterward, I lay in his bed, the silk sheets cool against my skin. This bed. HIS bed.

Not the familiar ground-floor apartment where he usually kept me hidden away. “Dominic,” I murmured, tracing the eagle tattoo that adorned his chest—my design, my ink, my claim on him.

“Why tonight? Why bring me here?” I asked, my heart racing as I watched him reach for his cigarette case, his movements languid and unhurried.

“I’m getting married.”

The words fell from his lips with such casual indifference, so simple that for a moment, I found myself lost in translation, unable to comprehend the gravity of what he had just said.

“What did you say?”

“Natalia Volkov. The wedding is in three months.”

“No.” I shot up, the sheet slipping away, leaving me exposed.

“No, you’re—this has to be a joke. Tell me this is—”

“It’s a strategic alliance. Her father controls the eastern seaboard.”

“STRATEGIC?” My voice shattered like glass. “Dominic, we’ve been together for TEN YEARS—”

“We’ve fucked for ten years. Don’t confuse the transaction.”

Transaction. The word sliced through me like a jagged knife.

“I love you,” I whispered, my voice trembling with vulnerability. “You know I love you.”

“Love.”

He spat the word like it was a disease. “You love the idea of me. The power. The protection.”

“That’s not—”

“You think you’re special?” He exhaled smoke into my face, the acrid scent stinging my nostrils.

“You’re convenient. You were always just convenient.”

I felt something inside me shatter, a clean break that left me hollow.

“Get out.”

“This is YOUR apartment—”

“GET. OUT.”

He stood there, magnificent and monstrous, a titan of my despair. “Gabriel will send you the weapon commission details. You’ll forge Natalia’s ceremonial blade. Consider it payment for services rendered.”

“You want me to make HER wedding weapons?”

“Unless you’d prefer I terminate our arrangement entirely. Your father’s debts to this family aren’t fully settled.”

There it was—the leash. Always the leash.

“Of course.” I grabbed my dress, my hands trembling as I pulled it on. “Wouldn’t want to upset the great Dominic Cavallo.”

Burn.

Burn.

BURN.

The sketches went last. I had drawn him like a saint, like a savior. But he was neither.

My phone rang, jolting me from my fiery reverie. Papa.

“Piccola, it’s late—”

“I need you to erase me.”

My voice sounded foreign, detached.

“Seven days. Can you do it in seven days?”

Silence stretched between us like a chasm.

Then he asked, “What happened?”

“He’s marrying the Volkov princess. And I just realized I’ve spent ten years being his whore.”

“Aria—”

“SEVEN DAYS, PAPA. Make Aria Moretti disappear. New name. New papers. New life.”

At 3 AM, my phone lit up with an unknown number. A photo: Dominic and Natalia at a restaurant, his hand resting possessively on her lower back, his mouth close to her ear. She was blonde.

Porcelain. Perfect. Everything I could never be.

The message beneath read: This is your replacement. Know your fucking place.

I stared at the image until it burned into my retinas, searing my heart with its cruel reality.

Then I texted back: Acknowledged. And hurled the phone against the wall with a satisfying crash.

Good.

Aria Moretti—the girl who loved Dominic Cavallo—died tonight.