Luca POV
I wandered through the gallery, letting my gaze sweep across the vibrant halls. Bohemian galleries had their hands in everything—abstract paintings, striking sculptures, pop art, even Renaissance pieces.
The value of these artworks rose steadily each year, making them the perfect investment. More importantly, they were an ideal front. A large portion of the organization's money flowed quietly through these walls, washed clean before reentering the world.
An impressionist painting drew me closer. It captured the sea in all its glory—sun sinking at the horizon, water shimmering like fire. Just beside it hung its counterpart: the same sea beneath the moonlight, silver replacing the gold. Different times of day, same restless tide. Same artist.
I lowered my eyes to the nameplate. Yasmine Fernandez. The name rolled softly off my tongue. I already owned most of her collections. Now I had found more pieces worth claiming.
Despite being Don of the Rossi Family—the head of the Cosa Nostra—I had always valued art. It wasn't just a passion; it was a shield. I had poured millions into this gallery and into a curating company tied to it.
The CEO, Matthew Smith, was one of our trusted associates. He managed the laundering of funds tied to my late father's empire—money from drug and arms trafficking, his personal slush fund alone exceeding twenty billion dollars.
I had diversified since taking over. To avoid suspicion, I filtered the cash into everything from art and high-end restaurants to casinos, strip clubs, real estate, and cryptocurrency. My reach extended into every corner of the world, carefully hidden from the Guardia di Finanza.
That was why I moved the family to the U.S. I only returned to Italy on rare occasions, usually during the holidays.
"Boss," one of my men approached quietly. They knew better than to interrupt me here unless it was urgent.
I turned sharply. "What is it?"
"The bouncers at the casino caught a reporter snooping around."
A reporter. My jaw tightened. "Where is he?"
"At the warehouse, sir. What should we do?"
"Kill him, and the press will circle like vultures. That's attention I don't need." I paused, weighing my options. "Rough him up. Make sure he learns the lesson. Then release him. And double the security at the casino."
"Yes, Don Rossi." He nodded and slipped away.
My gaze drifted back to Yasmine's painting. Her work carried a certain fire—untamed, resilient. Something about it lingered with me.
Yasmine POV
I called Matt from the backseat of a taxi, my voice trembling.
"Hey, Yas. What's up?" he answered cheerfully.
"Matt… can I crash with you tonight? Things just went south with Nathan." My throat tightened. "He's been having an affair."
Silence. Then a sharp curse. "What the fuck? Babe, of course you can stay here. Are you on your way?"
"Yes. Thank you." I sighed, relief mixing with the ache in my chest.
"You're always welcome. Just a heads-up—Mark's here too. Hope you don't mind."
"Of course not. See you soon."
The taxi wove through the glowing New York streets, and I pressed my forehead to the glass. Nathan's betrayal still cut deep, like a wound I couldn't stop bleeding from. At least Matt's place would give me room to breathe.
When we pulled up outside his building, I hesitated for a moment, then stepped out. The familiar façade steadied me. Inside, the lobby's warmth wrapped around me, easing a fraction of the weight pressing on my chest.
I climbed the stairs, hearing laughter spill from his apartment. When I knocked, the door opened almost immediately.
"Yas!" Matt's smile lit up his face, genuine and warm. He pulled me inside. The apartment was cozy, filled with the comforting aroma of something simmering in the kitchen.
Mark lounged on the couch with a beer in hand. He sat up, grinning when he saw me. "Hey, Yasmine. Sorry about Nathan. You can stay as long as you need."
"Thanks, Mark." I managed a smile, though it felt fragile.
Matt nudged me toward the kitchen. "Come on. I was making pasta. Help me out—it'll take your mind off things."
I nodded, grateful for the distraction. We worked side by side, chopping vegetables and stirring sauce, the rhythm grounding me.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Matt asked softly.
I hesitated, eyes fixed on the bubbling pot. "It just… hurts. I thought we were happy."
"You deserve better," he said firmly. "Nathan doesn't know what he lost."
I glanced up, meeting his eyes—steady, sincere, full of concern. "We had plans… dreams. I don't know how to let that go."
"Plans can change," he said gently. "Sometimes, it's for the best. You'll find someone who values you, Yas. Someone who sees you."
Tears pricked my eyes, but his words soothed the ache, if only slightly.
"And what if I don't?" I whispered.
"You will." His hand rested lightly on my shoulder, steadying me. "It just takes time. The right person shows up when you least expect it. For now, focus on yourself. Remember what makes you happy."
I breathed in, trying to absorb his words. Maybe he was right. Maybe this heartbreak was an ending… but also the start of something I couldn't yet see.
"Thank you," I whispered, finally managing a small, real smile.
Matt smiled back, warmth in his eyes. "Every ending is a new beginning, Yas. Trust that something better is waiting for you."
For the first time that night, I believed him.