The Mafia Boss's Secret Lover (by Z·Nyra) novel Chapter 12

**Broken Skies Heal by George Orwell**

**Chapter 12**

The bar at the Savoy shimmered under the dim lights, its mahogany surfaces polished to a deep luster that invited whispers and secrets. Dominic occupied a secluded corner table, cradling a glass of whiskey that he had little desire for, his thoughts tangled in anticipation for a woman who might never arrive. The air was thick with the scents of wealth and desperation—a familiar concoction that wrapped around him like a shroud.

At precisely 8:15, she entered, her presence cutting through the haze of the bar. She wore the same attire from the tattoo parlor, a stark contrast to the glamorous red dresses she once donned for high-stakes meetings. Her short black hair was swept back, revealing a face devoid of makeup, stripped down to its essence. In that moment, she was not the polished figure he remembered but rather the raw, unfiltered version of herself.

“You’re late,” he remarked, his tone a mixture of relief and disappointment.

“I walked. Needed to think,” she replied, her voice steady yet tinged with an undercurrent of anxiety.

He slid the spare glass toward her, a silent offering. “Drink?”

“No.” She perched on the edge of the chair, her posture rigid as if poised to flee. “Talk.”

And so he spoke, unleashing a decade’s worth of unvoiced thoughts. “I was twenty-five when I first laid eyes on you. Already entrenched in managing half the family business. You looked at that piece of steel like it was a living thing, and I thought, ‘She sees things that others can’t.'”

“I was twenty. Starving. Desperate,” she countered, her expression hardening.

“I know. And I took advantage of that,” he admitted, swirling the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “But I also gave you something. Didn’t I?”

“A cage with silk sheets,” she shot back, her voice laced with bitterness.

“Skills. Purpose. A place to belong,” he insisted, each word heavy with the weight of their shared history.

“Belonging to you isn’t belonging,” she replied, locking her gaze onto his, challenging him.

He held her eyes, unyielding. “Then let me belong to you.”

The declaration landed between them like a blade thrown with precision. She blinked, momentarily stunned. “What?”

“You’ve always been the strong one. The one capable of walking away. I was the one who needed,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Let me need you. Publicly. Not as a transaction. As a choice.”

“Dominic—”

“I called off the wedding. Not postponed. Canceled,” he interrupted, urgency threading through his words.

Her breath caught, and she froze. “Natalia—”

“Is suing for breach of contract. Her father is threatening war. Gabriel is managing the fallout,” he said, a ghost of a smile flitting across his lips, though it never reached his eyes. “For the first time in my life, I’m making a decision based on what I want, not what the family demands.”

“And what is it that you want?” she pressed, her curiosity piqued, yet guarded.

“You. However you’ll have me,” he confessed, vulnerability creeping into his voice.

Around them, the bar faded into the background. The piano player’s notes, the low hum of conversations, the clinking of glasses—all of it dissolved into mere noise, leaving only the gravity of this moment. A decade’s worth of power dynamics shifted with a single sentence.

“I can’t go back to New Orleans,” she said firmly. “Not as Aria Moretti.”

They remained in that suspended moment until the bar closed, two souls who had spent years in each other’s shadows finally learning to exist in the same light. When the waiter approached to usher them out, Dominic settled the bill, and they stepped outside together, not touching, yet perfectly aligned.

In the hotel lobby, he turned to her, the gravity of the moment settling in. “There’s a room reserved under your new name.”

“There’s a room reserved under yours,” she replied, a flicker of mischief in her eyes.

“So there are two rooms,” he said, a smile creeping onto his face.

“One more than we need,” she said, and at that, his heart cracked open, spilling hope and longing.

They entered the elevator in silence, the tension thick yet charged with possibility. On the fifth floor, he walked her to her door, watching her swipe the keycard with a practiced ease.

“Dominic,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?” he replied, his heart racing.

“If I let you in, I’m not letting you out again,” she warned, her eyes searching his for sincerity.

“That’s the first thing you’ve said that makes sense all night,” he chuckled softly.

With a deep breath, she opened the door, and he stepped inside after her. For the first time in ten years, Dominic Cavallo and Aria Moretti existed in the same space, stripped of titles, transactions, and the heavy burden of an empire that had once defined them.

Just two people, finally learning the most perilous skill of all: how to be vulnerable.