The Mafia Boss's Secret Lover (by Z·Nyra) novel Chapter 5

**Broken Skies Heal by George Orwell**

**Chapter 5**

The streetcar clattered along its tracks, making its way toward Canal Street in the dead of night. It was nearly deserted, save for a lone drunk sprawled across the back seat, lost in a stupor, and an elderly woman, her fingers tightly wrapped around a set of rosary beads, whispering prayers to herself. I kept my gaze fixed on the floor, my head bowed low, a scarf shielding my hair from prying eyes, and sunglasses obscuring my face even in the dim light. Perhaps it was paranoia, but to vanish completely, one needed to master the art of becoming invisible. In the back room of Papa’s print shop, a sanctuary that felt like my unofficial birthplace, he awaited me. This was the place where he had crafted my school transcripts, forged my first driver’s license, and produced the documents that declared my existence when Dominic’s lawyers came demanding proof. But now, he was in the process of erasing every trace of that life.

“Piccola,” he exclaimed, pulling me into a tight embrace, so fierce it felt as if my ribs might crack. “You look like hell.”

“Feel like it too,” I replied, sinking into the chair he gestured toward. A camera was perched on a tripod, its lens pointed at a blank wall, as if waiting to capture a truth that had yet to be revealed. His desk was cluttered with papers—birth certificates, social security cards, even a high school diploma from a town that existed only in the shadows of his imagination. “How deep does this go?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Deep enough,” he replied, handing me a passport. “Meet Elena Rossi. Born in Bologna, immigrated at sixteen, licensed cosmetologist.”

I flipped through the pages, my heart racing as I saw entry stamps from countries I had only dreamed of visiting, visas that appeared perfectly aged. “Cosmetologist?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“You need a skill that can travel with you,” he explained, his tone pragmatic. “Weaponsmithing leaves a trail. Beauty schools are everywhere.” He gestured toward another stack of documents. “I transferred fifty thousand to an account in her name. It’ll look like an inheritance from a deceased aunt.”

“Fifty thousand won’t last long,” I countered, my voice tinged with concern.

“Long enough to start over,” he reassured me, squeezing my shoulder. “You have your mother’s eyes, but Elena has a different look altogether. Green contacts. The prescription is legitimate—you’ll need them to pass any serious scrutiny.”

I stared at the photo he had taken. Elena Rossi bore a resemblance to me, but there was a softness to her features, a youthfulness that suggested a life untouched by darkness. A woman who had never loved a monster.

“Papa,” I began, but he raised a hand to silence me.

“Don’t,” he said firmly. “Don’t thank me. Don’t explain. Just… be happy. Somewhere. Anywhere but here.”

I signed the papers with my new name, practicing the loops and curves until they felt like a second skin. Elena Rossi. Elena Rossi. Elena Rossi. By the third signature, it no longer felt like a lie; it felt like a rebirth.

“The car downstairs is registered to Elena,” he said, handing me the keys. “Nothing flashy—a twelve-year-old Honda Civic. It won’t attract attention.”

“I put a suitcase in the trunk. Clothes, some cash, your mother’s jewelry—the things you should have received when she passed, not when you were running for your life.”

My throat tightened at the mention of my mother. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Since the day you brought him home,” Papa confessed, his voice cracking with emotion. “I saw his face, the way he looked at you as if you were property. I knew one day you’d need an exit strategy.”

I embraced him once more, inhaling the familiar scent of ink, aged paper, and a thousand forged futures. “I’ll call when I can,” I promised.

“Don’t,” he replied, pulling back, his expression grave. “Elena Rossi doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know Dominic Cavallo. She’s a ghost with a heartbeat. That’s how you survive.”

Outside, rain had begun to fall—fat drops that transformed the streets into shimmering mirrors. I made my way to the Honda, my new old car, and drove back to the warehouse. Just two more days. Forty-eight hours until Elena Rossi would leave Aria Moretti behind forever.

When I arrived at the warehouse, darkness enveloped me, but I quickly noticed the lock had been forced. My hand instinctively reached for the smaller blade concealed in my boot—the very one I had taken with me the night I delivered Natalia’s weapon. The door creaked open silently.

Dominic was seated in my studio, surrounded by my tools, a half-empty bottle of whiskey resting on the anvil. In this space, he appeared diminished, stripped of his empire—a mere man in a setting that felt foreign to him.

“You’re out late,” I remarked, closing the door behind me, my grip firm on the hilt of my blade.

“You’re trespassing,” he shot back.

“I own this building.”

“You own everything,” I retorted, not sheathing the knife. “Except me. Not anymore.” He stood, his movements deliberate, the alcohol in his system evident, but he wasn’t sloppy. “You delivered the blade,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice.

“You’ve mentioned that already,” I replied, my tone flat.

“Natalia was impressed.”

“Good for her,” I said, crossing my arms, the tension thickening the air between us.

We stood facing one another across the anvil, the space between us heavy with all the words we had left unspoken. A decade of silence finally finding its voice in the stillness of the room.

“I remember the first weapon you made me,” he said, nostalgia lacing his words. “A throwing knife. You were nineteen. You worked for three days without sleep.”

“I’d disappear,” I replied, pressing just enough to draw a thin line of red against his skin. “There’s a difference.”

“I won’t let you go.”

“You don’t have a choice.” I lowered the blade, but I didn’t put it away. “The papers are being drawn up. Your public statement. ‘Cavallo family severs ties with independent contractor Aria Moretti.’ You’ll announce it at the engagement party.”

His face paled, realization dawning. “Natalia told you.”

“She showed me my place,” I said, stepping back to create distance. “I’ll spare you the trouble. I’m quitting.”

“You can’t quit. Your father’s debts—”

“Will be settled in full when I deliver one last commission. For you.” I retrieved a cloth-wrapped bundle from the shelf behind me. “A wedding present.”

He unwrapped it slowly, his expression shifting as he revealed a dagger, smaller than Natalia’s ceremonial blade but far more exquisite. The handle was carved from ebony, inlaid with silver in a pattern that danced like flames. The blade bore a single inscription in Italian: “Ho amato una volta”—I loved once.

“Aria—”

“Take it,” I urged, my voice faltering. “Take it and consider my debt paid. My father’s too. Ten years of forging your weapons, ten years of being your convenience. It’s enough.”

He held the dagger gingerly, as if it might explode in his hands. “What will you do?”

“Live,” I said, turning away to methodically clean my tools, each movement precise.

“Something I haven’t done in a decade.”

I heard him leave, the door clicking shut behind him. Outside, the rain had ceased. Dawn was approaching. And in just twenty-four hours, Elena Rossi would be born.

In the quiet that enveloped me, surrounded by steel and memories, I began the final preparations for my own death.