Italian-American Heiress: The Fiancée He Underestimated Chapter 08
The Silence
That night, a storm hits.
Julian’s severed finger got infected. He didn’t get it treated. He’s burning up. Delirious.
He bribes a security guard during the shift change and climbs the estate wall like a ghost. Wet hair. Bloody bandage. Feverish eyes.
I wake up to the smell of rain and copper.
Julian is sitting on the edge of my bed.
He reaches for my cheek. In Italian — soft, sick, sweet.
“Elena. You’re awake.”
“Cami is in prison. My finger paid the price. All the ugly things are behind us. Everything is clean now.”
“Tomorrow we go pick out a new wedding dress. We start over. Okay?”
My stomach flips.
I roll out of bed. I back up to the window.
I grab the letter opener from my desk. The metal one. I press the blade to the side of my own neck. Hard enough that a bead of red slides down.
Julian freezes.
He throws his hands up. Terrified.
“Elena! Put it down — I won’t touch you — I swear —”
I stare at him. No fear. Just something worse than hate.
Total disgust. Nothing but disgust.
“Julian. One more step and I bleed out on this carpet.”
“I’d rather die than let you touch me again.”
Something inside him finally breaks.
He sees it — really sees it. No amount of self-harm, no amount of pity plays, no amount of Italian love letters written in blood will ever bring me back.
BANG.
Alexander kicks the door in. Two bodyguards behind him.
He crosses the room in three steps. Twists Julian’s arm behind his back. Pins him face-down on the carpet.
Julian goes feral.
Screaming. Kicking. Spitting.
He switches to Italian. The filthiest, dirtiest words he knows — dripping out of him like sewage.
Alexander looks down at him like he’s a stain on the floor.
The bodyguards zip-tie his wrists.
I set the letter opener down. Walk over. Stand above him.
“Julian. You know what you were most proud of? Playing people with two languages.”
“Sweet in English. Filthy in Italian.”
“You thought it was your charm. Turns out — it was your poison.”
The police take him.
Public trespassing. Assault. Harassment. Nonno pulls a few strings. He gets fifteen days in holding.
—
Fifteen days later, Julian walks out of the detention center.
He’s a shadow. Skin pale. Bandage still oozing blood.
He looks up.
Across the street, the giant LED billboard on the shopping plaza is playing breaking news.
Sterling Group heir Alexander Sterling officially announces engagement to Elena Rossi — sole heir to Rossi Group.
On screen, I’m in a white couture gown, laughing. Alexander leans down and kisses my cheek.
Julian’s chest heaves.
Then he doubles over.
A mouthful of blood hits the sidewalk. Bright red. Steaming in the cold.
—
Within a month, Thorne Industries collapses.
Every partner cuts ties. Every bank pulls their credit. Every scandal Julian dug up on Cami gets tied back to his firm too.
He sells his cars. His penthouse. His watches.
He ends up back in the old apartment where he and I were supposed to start our marriage.
Empty. Dusty. Curtains drawn.
He sits on the floor. Bottles pile up around him. In his hand — a wrinkled photo of me he stole from the condo months ago.
He drinks until his nerves break.
At night, the voices come back.
His own voice. Cami’s voice. Whispering in Italian.
“Four condoms in one night. Not enough for you?”
“She’s got such a poor woman’s body.”
“So what if she finds out? She can’t live without me anyway.”
Every filthy thing he ever said carves itself into his brain like a razor.
He drops to his knees. Broken glass slices through his jeans. He doesn’t feel it.
He covers his ears. Whispers to no one.
“Stop. Please stop. Stop saying it.”
“I didn’t mean it. I loved Elena. I was forced —”
But the voices only get louder.
He stumbles into the bathroom. Flips on the light. Grabs the sink with both hands.
His reflection stares back.
Sunken eyes. A demon in the glass.
He stares at his own tongue.
That tongue. The thing that ruined everything.
Every sweet lie. Every filthy Italian word. All from that one traitor.
He lets out a broken laugh.
“It’s you. It was always you.”
“If I take you out — Elena will forgive me. Elena is soft. Elena will come back.”
He opens his mouth. Aims his teeth at the base of his tongue.
He bites down. Hard.
The sound is unspeakable.
Blood sprays across the mirror. The sink. The tile.
He hits the floor twitching, foaming red. His fingers still trying to spell my name in the blood beside him.
—
The bill collector kicks the door in that afternoon. Finds him in a pool of blood.
He survives. Barely.
But the doctor is calm and final.
“Vocal cords infected. Tongue nerve completely severed. Even the best surgeon in the world can’t bring his voice back.”
“He will never speak again.”
The two languages he was so proud of — English and Italian — both dead in his mouth.
He wakes up in the hospital. Fumbles for his phone with shaking fingers.
Not to check his wounds. To check for a message from me.
There’s no message from me.
There’s a headline instead.
Sterling wedding: Bride Elena Rossi reportedly pregnant. Alexander Sterling attends her every step, gazing at her with total adoration.
The photo — Alexander’s hand carefully on my waist. My hand on my belly. Both of us smiling like the world finally makes sense.
Julian opens his mouth to scream my name.
Nothing comes out but wind.
Just a wet, broken “ahh, ahh” — like a slaughtered animal.
—
Six months later. A perfect afternoon.
I’m on the garden swing behind our new villa. The wind smells like jasmine.
I’m five months along.
Alexander sits beside me with an Italian storybook. He reads to the baby in soft, perfect Italian. His eyes are the softest I’ve ever seen them.
My phone buzzes.
A friend back home:
Elena. Julian’s bankrupt. He’s been kicked out of every place he stayed. He’s living on the street now. Digging through trash cans. He lost his mind after losing his voice.
Then a photo.
A filthy man under a highway overpass. Matted hair. Rags. In his fist — the taped-together pieces of the breakup agreement he tore up that day.
The friend sends a voice message.
“Elena — you must feel amazing seeing him like this, right?”
I look at the photo. My heartbeat doesn’t change.
I type back:
No. Once someone is completely erased from your world, whether they live or die means nothing to you. He doesn’t deserve a single drop of my emotion anymore.
I drop the phone in the basket next to the swing.
—
Across the street from the villa, near the trash cans, a shape shifts.
Julian.
Leaning on a broken stick. Watching through the wrought iron gate.
Watching me lean into Alexander. Watching him kiss my forehead.
His mouth opens. His ruined throat strains.
He wants to say three simple words.
I love you.
Nothing comes out but a nasty, wet dribble down his chin. And that awful “ahh, ahh” — the sound of a broken animal.
He tries to step forward. To touch the gate.
Our bodyguard walks up. Covers his nose. Kicks him away like a stray.
“Move it, crazy. Get out of here before you make Ms. Rossi sick.”
He hits the mud. Hard.
The taped-together agreement in his hand falls into a puddle. Dissolves. Turns to sludge.
Because that mouth of his ran too long. Because those two beautiful languages carried too much poison.
In the end, heaven took his voice. Took his dignity. Took his money.
Now he just crouches in the gutter like a rat.
Watching my happiness in silence.
That’s his karma. Full circle.
—
The sun pours down.
Alexander closes the storybook. Leans over. Kisses my forehead.
“The weather’s beautiful. Want to walk out front?”
I smile. I take his hand.
I close my eyes. The wind is sweet.
This is my rebirth. Real. Complete. Finally mine.