The Mafia Boss's Secret Lover (by Z·Nyra) novel Chapter 3

**Broken Skies Heal by George Orwell**
**Chapter 3**

The forge loomed before me, reminiscent of a confessional, a sanctuary where secrets could be whispered and burdens shared. Nestled deep in the warehouse district, far removed from the opulent cages of the Cavallo estate, my tools hung silently on the walls—hammers, tongs, and files, all meticulously arranged by size, each one as familiar to me as the contours of my own hands. It had been far too long since I last stepped into this sacred space, the night I had incinerated my memories still vivid in my mind. Yet, the forge remained untouched, a testament to Papa’s unwavering devotion.

I fished out the commission sheet Gabriel had sent me, the paper crinkling under my fingers. It bore the weight of Natalia’s ceremonial blade. The specifications were laid out in cold, precise text: twenty-eight inches, crafted from Damascus steel, double-edged, with the Volkov crest on one side and the Cavallo emblem on the other. A symbol of unity, or perhaps a cruel joke, considering the animosity that simmered beneath the surface.

As I heated the steel, it screamed—a high-pitched wail that echoed in the dimly lit room—reaching eighteen hundred degrees until it glowed a fierce sunset-orange. My hammer fell with purpose, and the metal responded, yielding to my will, reshaping itself beneath the force of my blows. This was the essence of my craft, something Dominic had never grasped: I didn’t impose my will on the metal; I listened to its whispers, guiding it gently towards its destined form.

Sweat trickled down my spine, a testament to the heat that enveloped me. I worked bare-handed, relishing the sensation of the heat and the vibrations that traveled up my arms like a song. It seemed like a lifetime ago when Dominic had first discovered me at a street fair, where I sketched blade designs for unsuspecting tourists. I was just twenty then, drowning in the weight of my father’s debts, so desperate that I accepted money from a man whose smile never reached his eyes. When he first touched my hand, he had said, “You have the hands of an artist.” And when he kissed me, I had foolishly believed every word.

The blade began to take shape under my meticulous hands, and I despised its beauty. Each fold of steel revealed intricate patterns, reminiscent of wood grain or water flowing in a gentle stream. With trembling fingers, I etched the crests into the metal—the Cavallo eagle, wings spread wide in a display of predatory grace, and the Volkov bear, rearing on its hind legs, claws extended in a show of strength. It was a fitting representation: enemies masquerading as lovers.

“Aria.”

The sudden voice broke my concentration, and I spun around, hammer poised in the air. Gabriel stood in the doorway, his expression drawn tight with concern. “You shouldn’t be here,” I warned, returning my focus to the blade, heating it once more. The glow transformed the room into a blood-red haze.

“Dominic doesn’t like his assets unaccounted for,” he replied, stepping further into the forge.

“Worried about me?” I scoffed, the bitterness spilling from my lips. “He’s worried about the blade. Afraid I’ll sabotage it. Tell him not to trouble himself. I’m a professional.”

“Would you really forge weapons for the woman replacing you?” His voice was incredulous, disbelief etched in his features.

With renewed vigor, I brought the hammer down harder, sending sparks flying around me like dying stars. “I’m forging a piece of metal, Gabriel. That’s all this has ever been—cold steel for cold hearts.”

“Bullshit.” He stepped closer, the firelight casting shadows across his face. “I’ve watched you for ten years. You pour your soul into every piece you create.”

“Then perhaps it’s time I learned to work without a soul,” I retorted, my voice colder than the steel itself.

Gabriel fell silent for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between us. Finally, he spoke again. “The papers are ready. Your father sent me the contact information. New passport, driver’s license, social security. Your name has already been changed in three state databases.”

My hands stilled, the gravity of his words sinking in. “How quickly can he do it?”

“Four days. He needs you to come in for photos and signatures.”

“He wants to protect you. If the Volkovs think you’re still connected—”

“He’s not protecting me. He’s protecting his alliance.” I picked up the blade, testing its sharp edge against my thumb, a thin line of blood appearing immediately. “Tell him I’ll make his fucking statement for him. I’ll be gone before he needs to pretend I mattered.”

“Aria—”

“Get out, Gabriel. Please.”

He left, the door creaking shut behind him. I immersed myself in my work, the rhythmic dance of hammer against anvil creating a language only I understood. By dawn, the blade was complete—a masterpiece of death, artfully disguised.

I wrapped it in oilcloth and set it aside, but my hands were not finished. I retrieved a fresh piece of steel—not for a commission, but for myself.

A smaller blade. Concealable. Mine.

If I was going to disappear, I would do it on my own terms. And I would be armed.