The Mafia Boss's Secret Lover (by Z·Nyra) novel Chapter 11

**Broken Skies Heal**

**Chapter 11**

The wedding was looming just three days away, a date that should have been filled with joy and celebration. Instead, Dominic found himself standing in the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel, surrounded by an audience of three hundred expectant guests, and delivering the crushing news that the union between the Cavallo and Volkov families was postponed indefinitely.

The air was thick with disbelief when Natalia, in a fit of rage, hurled a vase in his direction. It narrowly missed him, crashing against the wall and scattering shards across the polished floor. “You humiliated me!” she screamed, her voice echoing in the vast space.

“I offered you an escape,” he replied, his tone unnervingly calm amidst the chaos. “You chose to ignore it.”

“I ignored it because you promised—”

“I promised an alliance,” he interrupted, his patience wearing thin. “You wanted a puppet to play with. I’m not that.” He turned, making his way toward the exit, feeling the weight of the room’s tension pressing down on him. “The deal is still in place. The routes are shared. Our families are intertwined. But I refuse to marry on command. Not even for you.”

Mikhail, standing firmly in his path, blocked his way. “You’re willing to destroy everything for a woman who doesn’t even want you.”

“She wanted me for ten years,” Dominic replied, his voice dropping to a low whisper that carried an intensity far more powerful than a shout. “That’s more than you’ll ever have.”

With that, he left them both standing in the wreckage of the once-celebratory ballroom, where flowers drooped sadly and the wedding cake remained untouched, a symbol of dreams dashed. Outside, Gabriel leaned against the car, waiting.

“Where to?” Gabriel asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

“London,” Dominic answered curtly.

“You know where she is?” Gabriel pressed, skepticism lacing his words.

“I know where Gabriel’s private investigator sends his reports,” Dominic replied, sliding into the back seat with a sense of purpose. “You think you’re the only one who knows how to track a ghost?”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened, his expression darkening. “She doesn’t want to be found.”

“She doesn’t know what she wants,” Dominic shot back, pulling out his phone. He scrolled through the images he had commissioned—a woman with striking green contacts moving through the bustling Camden Market, her hair now shorter, her attire a stark contrast to the past. Yet, in every image, her hands still moved with the grace of a sculptor, tracing invisible patterns in the air when she thought no one was watching. “She’s in Camden, sharing a flat with art students. Working under the table at a tattoo parlor.”

“You going to drag her back?” Gabriel asked, skepticism still evident in his voice.

“I’m going to ask her what she wants,” Dominic replied, his gaze fixed on the photo. “And this time, I’m going to listen.”

The flight to London stretched on for seven long hours, each minute a painful reminder of what he had lost. Dominic couldn’t find solace in sleep; instead, his mind wandered to the girl he had encountered at a street fair. He remembered the way she had gazed at a piece of steel as if it were alive, the way her hands had brushed against his chest while she carved an eagle, her movements steady, her eyes ablaze with passion. The way she had uttered “I love you” as if it were a weapon she was entrusting to him.

He had wielded that weapon against her.

No more.

As he stepped into Camden Market, the air was thick with the scents of incense and rebellion, a vibrant tapestry of life swirling around him. Dominic navigated through a sea of punk kids and curious tourists, his leather jacket helping him blend into the eclectic crowd. He soon found the tattoo parlor, “Needle & Thread,” nestled between a vinyl record shop and a lively pub.

Inside, she was there.

Her hair was now a deep black, cut in a choppy style that framed her face. Her eyes had returned to their natural brown—no more green contacts. She wore a tank top that showcased arms honed from hours spent at the forge, and she was focused intently on sketching a design for a customer, her movements so familiar it struck him like a physical blow.

Dominic lingered in the doorway for what felt like an eternity before she finally looked up. Her expression shifted rapidly through shock, anger, and then resignation, as if she were a storm cloud ready to unleash its fury.

“You found me,” she stated flatly.

“You used my name,” he replied, stepping into the space, the tension palpable. The customer—a kid with vibrant purple hair—sensed the charged atmosphere and quickly made his exit. “Aria Cavallo. Clever.”

“It was Gabriel’s idea of a joke,” she retorted, setting her sketch aside. “What do you want, Dominic?”

“To talk,” he said simply.

“We talked in Chicago. It didn’t help.”

“That wasn’t talking. That was merely surviving,” he countered, taking a seat in the empty chair across from her. “This is different.”

“How?” she challenged, crossing her arms defensively.

“Because I’m not here as Dominic Cavallo. I’m here as the man who misses his weaponsmith.” He paused, his voice softening. “And who misses his friend.”

She flinched at his words. “We were never friends.”

His phone buzzed, ringing with Gabriel’s name. “Natalia’s father is threatening open war. Says you’ve dishonored his daughter.”

“Let him threaten,” Dominic replied, his voice resolute.

“Dominic—”

“Tell him I’ll return the dowry. Every cent. The alliance is over.”

“You sure about this?” Gabriel pressed, concern lacing his tone.

He thought about Aria’s face when she had held that blade to his throat, the way her hands had remained steady, resolute. The way she had chosen freedom over him. “I’m sure,” he said, a newfound clarity settling over him. “For the first time in ten years, I’m absolutely sure.”

Back in the tattoo parlor, Aria stared at the card. The number was unfamiliar—neither his private line nor Gabriel’s. It was a new number, heralding a new beginning.

She picked up her phone and texted: *You’d really end it all?*

His reply was immediate: *I’d end everything that isn’t us.*

Aria glanced around the shop, taking in the designs adorning the walls, the life she had built in just three short weeks. It was good. It was safe. It was hers.

But it was also lonely.

She texted back: *The Savoy has a bar. I’ll meet you there at 8. But I’m not promising anything.*

His response was succinct, just two words: *Neither am I.*

For the first time since leaving New Orleans, Aria Moretti—no, Aria Cavallo—smiled.

The ghost had finally come home. Not to a cage. Not to a penthouse. But to the man who had learned that love wasn’t about possession. It was about choosing to stay, even when every reason urged you to leave.

She locked up the shop and stepped into the twilight of London, heading toward a hotel and a future that was neither planned nor convenient.

It was simply… theirs.