The Mafia Boss's Secret Lover (by Z·Nyra) novel Chapter 7

**Broken Skies Heal by George Orwell**
**Chapter 7**

The Honda Civic sat quietly in the warehouse parking lot, its interior steeped in the scent of stale coffee and a lingering sense of missed chances. It was 10 PM, and here I was, my existence distilled down to a single suitcase stowed away in the trunk and a worn backpack resting on the passenger seat beside me. The documents belonging to Elena Rossi felt like a weight in my pocket—a passport thick with fabricated history, a driver’s license that bore a face that was not mine.

My phone vibrated insistently, pulling me from my thoughts. Gabriel’s name flashed on the screen: *He’s looking for you. Says you left the party without the building papers.*

I hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen before I replied: *Not his concern anymore.*

The response was almost immediate: *Aria, don’t do this. He’ll tear the city apart.*

I felt a flicker of defiance. *Let him.*

With a swift motion, I powered down the phone and removed the battery, severing my last connection to Aria Moretti. No more ties, no more burdens.

The warehouse loomed dark and silent as I stepped back inside for what I knew would be the final time. My tools hung on the walls, silent sentinels of my past, each one steeped in memories I could no longer afford to carry. I couldn’t take them; they were too recognizable, too laden with history. But one small file caught my eye, the very first tool I had wielded to forge a blade for Dominic. It fit snugly in my palm, a secret I couldn’t let go.

My studio apartment above the warehouse was stripped clean, a shell of what it once was. I imagined Gabriel, perhaps, had been the one to pack my belongings away into estate storage. I felt a flicker of resentment. Let Natalia have my easels. Let Dominic sift through a decade of my life like it was nothing more than old receipts.

I placed the key on the counter, a silent farewell, and stepped out into the night.

By midnight, I found myself cruising along the I-10 West, the road stretching endlessly toward Houston. Elena Rossi was meant to begin her new life in Chicago, but Dominic had taught me one crucial lesson: never go where they expect you. Houston was vast enough to swallow me whole, close enough that if it turned sour, I could simply keep driving.

The radio crackled with static, a disjointed melody of silence. I turned it off, opting instead to listen to the rhythmic hum of the tires on asphalt. At 2 AM, I crossed the Texas state line, the vastness of the landscape swallowing me whole. As dawn broke, I pulled into a roadside motel outside Beaumont, paying in cash. The clerk barely glanced at my face. Just as I wanted it.

I surrendered to sleep until noon, luxuriating in a long shower until the hot water ran cold. When I finally emerged, I studied my reflection in the mirror. The green contacts from Elena Rossi transformed my eyes into something unrecognizable, an alien gaze staring back at me. Her driver’s license claimed she was twenty-eight—two years younger than the woman I had been. A social security number opened a credit history that began as if I had just stepped into existence three years ago.

I was a ghost, cloaked in the perfect paperwork of a new identity.

As I drove north through Texas, I passed through pine forests and quaint towns where no one seemed to ask questions. Three days on the road, I stayed in motels that charged by the hour and dined on gas station snacks that tasted like liberation. No calls, no messages. The world continued to spin on its axis without Aria Moretti.

By the fourth day, I arrived in Chicago.

The apartment Papa had secured for me was nestled in Ukrainian Village—a third-floor walk-up with leaky faucets and windows that only offered a view of a brick wall. It was perfect in its anonymity. The very next morning, I enrolled in cosmetology school, adopting my new name and fabricated history. The instructor barely glanced at my transfer credits from a non-existent school in Phoenix, as if she could sense the weight of my past.

And just like that, Elena Rossi stepped into her new life.

She was remarkably mundane. She attended classes, absorbed lessons about skin tones and hair chemistry, returned to her empty apartment to slurp ramen while poring over textbooks. She no longer forged weapons. She didn’t even think about the men with eagle tattoos and hollow promises.

She simply existed. And for the first time in a decade, that existence felt like enough.

Two weeks into this new routine, I stumbled across an article. Gabriel had sent it to my old email—the one I had abandoned but still checked occasionally out of nostalgia. The headline read: *Local Artist Aria Moretti Opens New Studio in Arts District.*

I stared at the accompanying photo, a jarring reminder of my former life. The gallery Dominic had once offered me, the one I had turned down, was now thriving. My name graced the door, and my work was displayed prominently in the windows. Except it wasn’t my work. It was a collection of forgeries, someone else painting under my name.

Dominic had kept his promise. He had given me the building. He had ensured my name lived on.

My phone rang—an unknown number. I hesitated, almost letting it go to voicemail, but something compelled me to answer.

“You need to leave Chicago,” came Gabriel’s voice, but it was different—tinged with urgency and panic. “They know. The Volkovs. They have people watching you.”

“How?” I demanded.

“Dominic didn’t tell them. Natalia’s father has connections in document services. He traced the signature patterns. He’s been searching since you vanished.”

“Why are you calling me?” I asked, my mind racing.

“Because Dominic lost his fucking mind when he realized.” Gabriel’s words tumbled out in a rush. “He’s on his way. Right now. And he’s not coming to bring you home. He’s coming to burn everything down.”

“Gabriel—”

“Get out, Aria. Or Elena. Whoever you are. Get out before this becomes a war zone.”

The line went dead.

I stood frozen in my apartment, the file still clutched tightly in my hand, the truth dawning on me: I hadn’t truly escaped. I had merely changed my name. The chains still existed, only now they were tethered to a different ghost.

Elena Rossi had twenty-four hours before her life descended into chaos.