After 7 Years of Going Dutch, I Returned Home as a Mafia Heiress Chapter 05
It was past midnight by the time I returned to the apartment.
I pushed open the bedroom door, pulled open the closet, and threw my coats and dresses into my suitcase one by
one.
I pulled open the drawer of the nightstand and dug out my usual ointments, a few lipsticks, and, hidden in the deepest corner, a custom cigar box.
Opening the box, I found a thick stack of receipts from every meal we’d ever split, and a pile of Polaroids.
The little pasta place from our first date. I paid for half.
For our third anniversary, he gave me a cashmere scarf. The return receipt was still tucked inside. Price: $199.
He had said back then, “When I get back on my feet, I’ll make it up to you with something better.”
I waited seven years for “something better.” It never came.
Beneath the tin box was a stack of photos.
Spring, seven years ago. Our first date.
He stood under the cherry blossom trees in Central Park, and I held up my phone to take a picture of him. When he looked down at me, the corners of his eyes were smiling.
I once thought that whatever was in those eyes could sustain me for a lifetime.
Flipping further down. Last winter, the ginkgo tree outside our office building.
I was wearing that cheap silver necklace, my hands stuffed in my pockets, smiling at the camera.
He was next to me, taking a phone call, looking away. He didn’t even glance at the lens.
I flipped through them, one by one.
Seven years. An entire chapter of life. From a face full of smiles to a blank expression.
I stacked all the photos and receipts together, turned around, and walked to the fireplace in the living room.
I struck a match and threw it in.
This used to be our favorite spot. We would curl up next to it reading in the winter, and he would mull wine in the kitchen. Now, it was an incinerator for my memories.
Arthur’s face warped in the fire, curling up and burning into a blackened lump.
The edges of the receipts curled first, then turned to ash.
I crouched in front of the fireplace, watching the last spark die out.
The smell of smoke made my eyes sting.
The phone sitting on the coffee table started vibrating.
“Papa.” I answered the call.
My father’s deep, slow voice came through the receiver. “Vivian, enough is enough.”
“This ‘ordinary girl’ game you’ve been playing ends today.”
“Come back and take over your territories and your businesses.”
As the sky began to lighten, I dragged my suitcase out the door.
I tossed the key to this apartment onto the shoe cabinet, pinning down a sticky note.
[Arthur, may we never meet again.)
A black sports car was waiting at the entrance. The driver saw me, bowed his head slightly, and said, “Welcome home, Principessa.”
I got into the back seat. The smell of the leather was so familiar it was like coming home.
The car started and merged into the early morning traffic.
I opened my social media app. Jessica had just posted another update.
The photo showed a top-tier French restaurant. Candlelight, red wine, two sets of silver cutlery.
The caption: [A night in Kingsburg, with someone who makes it worth it.]
In the bottom right corner of the photo, half of a man’s hand was visible.
On the second joint of the index finger was a shallow scar.
I
He cut himself last year while searing a steak for me. Blood had dripped onto the cutting board, and I had bandaged it with a Band-Aid.
On his ring finger, he was still wearing the plain silver band, a match to the one he had given me when we made our relationship official.
I looked at it for a moment, then rolled down the window.
As the car sped onto the highway, I hurled the phone out the window, and with it, seven years of foolish hope.
The wind snatched it away without a trace.
I leaned back into my seat and closed my eyes.
The sports car sped toward the Rossi family estate outside the city. The girl who spent seven years making herself small for Arthur was gone.
From this day on, the true heir to the Rossi family had returned.
