Nico reached across the small table and brushed a strand of dark hair from her forehead.
The gesture was tender.
Intimate.
The sunlight was beautiful. Golden light spilled over them both, turning the scene into something from a painting—two lovers reunited, the world soft and warm around them.
The smile on his face was relaxed. Content. Alive in a way I had never seen in three years of sharing his bed, his name, his blood oath.
I had given him everything.
My career. My hands. My future.
And he had never once looked at me the way he was looking at her now.
I forced myself to look away. The bile rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down. Mancini women did not break in public.
"Signorina Mancini? Are you still there?"
Marco was still talking. Something about flight arrangements. Security details. The Genovese territory protocols.
I hung up.
Paid the bill with cash—untraceable, the way I'd been taught. Grabbed my luggage. Walked out of the café with my spine straight and my face composed.
Then I crossed the street.