Claire⋅•⋅⊰∙∘∘∙⊱⋅•⋅I stepped into the spacious, gleaming marble bathroom in Vincenzo's penthouse. My heart was heavy with the memories of Ethan's death, making each step toward the massive glass-enclosed shower a struggle.With a sigh, I began to undress, peeling away the layers of clothing that felt like a protective barrier against the harsh realities of my life. The cold bathroom tiles stung against the soles of my feet as I stripped down, my clothing dropping in a messy heap on the floor.The tiles felt uncomfortable beneath my feet as I approached the shower. I hesitated before stepping inside, my hand trembling as I reached for the faucet. The large rain showerhead loomed above, an invitation to let the water wash everything away, but my trembling fingers made it hard to grasp the handle.I turned the faucet, and the water burst forth in a warm cascade. Its comforting embrace was inviting, but I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that I was an intruder in this grand bathroom. W

Vincenzo⋅•⋅⊰∙∘∘∙⊱⋅•⋅"Will you be okay here? I have some important matters to attend to," I informed Aunt Alessia.She sighed heavily, her eyes showing traces of tears, "I'll manage, as long as Adriano and Silvio recover."I nodded, assuring her, "The doctor said they're out of danger."Her hand reached out to hold mine, "I know, you go ahead. I'm here, and once they wake up, I'd like to return to Chicago. I don't feel safe in this place anymore. It's not safe for you, it's not safe for any of my boys." I gently kissed the hand resting on top of mine, "We'll make arrangements to leave soon."I gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and then turned to leave. As I walked away, I couldn't help but think about this fucked-up situation. Santino's attack has shaken our family, and I'm going to make sure we would deal with it decisively. But first, I needed to take care of her. Exiting the hospital, I slid into my car and dialed her number, the sense of urgency gnawing at me. The phone rang pe

Claire⋅•⋅⊰∙∘∘∙⊱⋅•⋅My eyes slowly fluttered open, and I stared at the unfamiliar ceiling. The room was dimly lit but it was seriously fancy. I mean, it was like something out of a movie or a rich person's I*******m feed. Panic clawed at my chest as I tried to piece together the puzzle of where I was. This wasn't my home. Am I in heaven? I made it, Mom and Dad... I turned my head to the side, wincing as a sharp pain shot through me. My body ached, and I could feel the heaviness of blankets covering me. The details of the room came into focus—the wallpaper was all swanky, with deep reds and golds, and the lighting came from these fancy chandeliers that made everything look like a mood. This was no hospital or heaven; it was someone's home.My memory was a jumbled mess. The last thing I could recall was the desperate need for escape. The sting of a needle, the familiar rush of heroin, and the surge of cocaine snorted through a rolled-up bill. A deadly cocktail I thought would silence

Claire⋅•⋅⊰∙∘∘∙⊱⋅•⋅My heart pounded in my chest as I paced back and forth in the dimly lit room. It was almost two in the morning and the minutes felt like hours, and I dreaded the moment when Vincenzo would show up. I didn't know what he wanted, but I had a feeling it wouldn't be pleasant.I glanced nervously at the door, my trembling fingers reaching out to turn the lock. With shaky hands, I pushed the bolt into place, the faint click of the lock echoing in the quiet room. I'm usually not the nervous, fidgety type, but the overdose and the medication have ramped up my anxiety, turning me into a jittery, twitching wreck.I needed something more to feel safe. My eyes darted around the room, searching for anything to barricade the door. My gaze landed on the heavy dresser pushed against the wall. It was the only piece of furniture that could possibly block the door.Summoning all my strength, I moved toward the dresser. It was difficult to maneuver on my own, but fear fueled my effort

Vincenzo⋅•⋅⊰∙∘∘∙⊱⋅•⋅Morning rituals – a symphony of punches echoing through my home gym. The home gym was lit just enough to give it that gritty, underground feel. Sunlight struggled through the blinds, casting long shadows on the equipment. I tossed my gloves on a bench, worn and cracked from too many showdowns, and started wrapping tape around my fingers.The punching bag hung there, like an old friend waiting to get pummeled.Bare-knuckled, fists taped, I unleashed fury on the punching bag. Each blow, a calculated dance of power and control. Muscles strained, body dripping sweat. Each punch sent it swinging, and the sound of knuckles meeting leather reverberated through the room. The air was thick with the musky scent of sweat and determination.No fancy workout gear – just me in black boxer shorts, throwing punches like I was settling a score. The morning light played off the sweat rolling down my face, and the whole place felt alive with the energy of a good, hard fight.The t