The Mafia Princess He Abandoned Became An Art Queen Chapter 09
He looked older than he had the year before. More gray at the temples. But there was a calmness to him now.
None of the desperation he’d had before.
He held a red velvet box in his hands.
When he saw me come out, he didn’t step forward.
“Rossella.”
I stopped.
“I know you won’t say yes,” he said steadily. “But I wanted to ask one last time.”
He opened the box.
Inside was a plain gold band, no stone, with two letters engraved on the inside.
R.C.
I looked at it for a long moment.
Then I reached out and took it.
Mario’s eyes lit up for a second.
A second later, I placed the ring back in his palm.
“Mario.”
“I’m not going to marry you.”
He closed his hand around the ring and gave a small, bitter smile. He couldn’t hide the disappointment in his eyes.
“I thought so.”
He stepped back and moved out of my way.
“Go on. Get home safe.”
I walked past him. My steps felt lighter than I expected.
The wind blew my hair across my face. I brushed it back.
I didn’t turn around, even after I’d walked a long way.
But I knew he was still standing there.
I never heard footsteps behind me.
Back in my apartment, I stood on the balcony and let the wind wash over me.
The Tower lights came on, tier by tier.
My phone buzzed. A message from Melissa.
“What do you want to eat tomorrow? I’ll bring it over.”
I typed back: “Anything is fine.”
The evening wind slipped down the collar of my coat. I pulled it tighter.
The Tower’s spire shimmered against the deep blue sky like a fallen star.
I leaned against the railing and took a long breath.
I smiled.
Years later, my days have settled into a rhythm.
Up early, coffee, three hours of painting.
Lunch at the little place downstairs. The owner knows me now and slips me half an extra croissant every time.
Clients or writing in the afternoon.
An hour’s walk along the Seine at dusk.
My social anxiety never fully went away.
Before every event, my stomach still ties itself in knots.
But each time, I stand my ground a little more easily.
One autumn evening, I was walking slowly along the river.
The wind was light. The water was scattered with shifting gold.
As I passed a bridge, I happened to glance toward the opposite bank.
A man was standing at the edge of the bridge.
Gray overcoat. More than half his hair gone white.
He was looking at me from across the width of the Seine.
When he saw me turn, he didn’t come toward me.
He only lifted his coffee cup slightly, like a quiet toast.
I looked away.
I kept walking.
The wind rose again, and I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
A message from Melissa: “Flying into Paris next week. Bringing your favorite dessert.”
The corner of my mouth lifted. I typed back: I’ll be waiting.
Then I put the phone away.
The bridge behind me grew smaller.
The figure on the far bank faded into the distance.
I didn’t look back.
The photo of the broken computer was still pinned above my desk.
For the first time, I saw the cracks not as damage but as branching rivers, spreading roots, new skin growing over an old scar.
I pushed open the balcony door and stepped inside.
The Paris sky was fading from blue to violet.
The Tower’s lights came on.
I leaned against the railing. The wind brushed past my ears.
Somewhere in the distance, a boat sounded its horn. Lights swayed in fragments on the water.
I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, a smile lifted slowly at the corner of my mouth.
The whole world was quiet.
Only the wind.
I stood there a while longer, then turned and went back inside.
The screen of my laptop was still glowing.
Beyond the window, the Tower shone gold.