Chapter 9
901words
Two mornings later, I'm arranging newly arrived Monet pieces when my phone rings. An unfamiliar Italian number.
"Miss Irina, this is Marco from the Moretti Family." The voice sounds exhausted. "The Godfather... there's something you should know."
My fingers pause briefly on the gilded frame, then resume polishing. "I'm no longer part of the Moretti Family. Whatever it is doesn't concern me."
"The Godfather is critically injured," Marco's voice trembles. "He was ambushed last night. His spine is damaged. The doctors say... his lower body may never recover. He keeps calling your name, begging to see you one last time."
I stop working and gaze at the golden Parisian sunlight streaming through the windows. "One last time?"
"Yes, miss. His mental state is... unstable. Since you left, he's made countless bad decisions. This ambush could have been avoided, but he... he seems indifferent to whether he lives or dies."
I slowly turn around, my voice so calm it surprises even me: "Marco, please inform Mr. Alessandro Moretti that the Petrova Family formally declares: our alliance is void. I am no longer his wife and have no obligation to visit him. Tell him to take care of himself."
A long silence follows on the other end.
"Miss... are you truly not coming back? He desperately needs you..."
"Goodbye, Marco."
I hang up and return to organizing the paintings. Ten minutes later, Marco calls again to inform me that after hearing my message, Alessandro signed the alliance termination agreement with trembling hands, formally relinquishing all rights and claims to me.
I simply say "Noted" and end the call.
From that day forward, I hear nothing more about Alessandro Moretti.
---
Two and a half years later, Chicago's skyline comes into view through the private jet's window.
"Nervous?" Ethan gently squeezes my hand. "We are returning to... that place."
I glance at the simple platinum band on my finger—the one Ethan placed there three months ago when he proposed along the Seine. Its design is understated, no flashy diamonds, just delicate engravings circling the band—like our love, unassuming yet enduring.
"No." I smile softly and shake my head. "That frightened woman no longer exists."
Ethan smiles and kisses my hand. This man has spent three years showing me what love truly means—not possession or control, but supporting me to become the best version of myself.
I pick up my tablet to browse the latest news. The Moretti Family still appears occasionally in the business section, mostly in negative reports about internal power struggles and FBI investigations. Alessandro was removed as godfather long ago and reportedly lives in exile somewhere in South America.
In contrast, the Petrova Family under my brother Dmitri's leadership has transformed into a legitimate business empire focused on art investment and international trade. Our name now appears on charity auction programs and cultural foundation boards rather than FBI most-wanted lists.
"Passengers, please fasten your seatbelts. We're beginning our descent into Chicago O'Hare International Airport."
I take a deep breath and grip Ethan's hand. This time I return as Irina Petrova, internationally renowned art authentication expert—not anyone's wife or prisoner.
---
The Chicago International Art Fair venue glitters with light as collectors and enthusiasts from around the world mingle. As the auction host, I've just finished my speech to thunderous applause.
"Ladies and gentlemen, sold! This magnificent Picasso goes to bidder number 47 for eight point five million dollars!"
As my gavel falls, the audience erupts into another round of enthusiastic applause. I bow gracefully and step down from the podium.
"You were absolutely brilliant," Ethan waits for me backstage, his eyes shining with pride. "Hard to believe you're the same woman who was broken in Paris three years ago."
I laugh softly and pat his chest. "That broken woman died a long time ago."
Just as I'm about to leave the backstage area, I glance into the venue. At the crowd's edge sits a man in a wheelchair, pushed by a black-suited bodyguard, staring in my direction.
I recognize that face instantly, despite how haggard and worn it's become.
Alessandro Moretti.
Once a powerful crime lord, now just a wheelchair-bound man ignored by the crowd. His hair has turned completely white, his cheeks hollow, aging him a decade beyond his years. Those once mesmerizing blue eyes now hold nothing but emptiness and exhaustion.
Our eyes meet across the space. He makes no attempt to approach, just watches me silently, as if gazing at something forever beyond his reach.
Then he nods slightly—a goodbye, perhaps, or maybe a blessing.
My phone vibrates once. A text from an unknown number:
"Congratulations, Irina. You're finally free. —A"
I read the message and feel nothing. No anger, no sadness, not even sympathy. It's like reading a text from a complete stranger.
"What is it?" Ethan notices my expression.
"Nothing." I delete the message and take his arm. "Let's go."
As we exit the exhibition hall, Chicago's night skyline glitters before us. This city that was once my prison is now just another dot on the map. I'm no longer a caged bird here, but a phoenix returned on wings of freedom.
Streetlights stretch our shadows as Ethan and I walk side by side. The exhibition hall recedes behind us, along with all the ghosts of my past fading into the darkness.
I will never look back again.
Never again.
