Chapter 2

The entire private room fell into dead silence in an instant.

Everyone was staring at me with wide eyes, the air thick as concrete. I realized what I had said, but the words were already out—there was no taking them back.

Lucas's face turned ashen in the dim lighting, those eyes burning with dangerous fury. He slowly rose to his feet and walked toward me, each step crushing my heart like a vice.

"What did you say?" His voice was low, like the growl of a wild beast.

Looking at Lucas's face—seven parts similar to Vincent's—I suddenly felt a wave of intense nausea. Not disgust toward him, but toward myself.

I was using him, using that face to ease my longing for Vincent. And he was using me too, exploiting my feelings for Vincent to satisfy his own desire for conquest.

In this game, there were no winners—only two equally pathetic people.

"Get out and wait for me!" Lucas exploded, his roar making the glasses in the room tremble.

I watched his flushed face, watched his fury, and the last shred of illusion in my heart shattered.

He wasn't Vincent. He could never be Vincent.

And Vincent... he would never come back.

I turned and walked out of the private room. The hallway lights were dim, and I leaned against the wall, feeling my legs about to give out.

I pulled out my phone and opened a conversation thread that hadn't been replied to in three years. There were countless messages I'd sent to Vincent, all disappearing into the void.

But I couldn't help typing again:

"Vincent, if you can still receive this message... tell me, what should I do? I feel like I'm losing myself. I miss you so much I'm going insane."

Send.

Like always, the message showed as delivered, but there would never be a reply.

I closed my eyes and let the tears fall.

The security guards in the lobby looked at me with sympathy and curiosity. I knew what happened in the private room would soon spread throughout the entire family.

The midnight streets were like a gaping maw, swallowing the intoxication and sin pouring out from the nightclub.

I stood at the entrance, cold wind cutting through to my bones, Lucas's "Get out and wait for me" still echoing in my ears. Three years, and I had sunk to this—waiting on the street for a man who saw me as a substitute to throw me scraps.

Neon lights flickered, my shadow twisting and distorting on the pavement.

Sure enough, everyone could smell the scent of a loser.

Three drunken thugs stumbled out from the bar across the street, their gazes locking onto me. The leader had greasy stubble and a disgusting smile plastered on his lips.

"Look who we have here?" Stubble-face swayed closer. "Don's little princess is this pathetic now? Standing alone on the street waiting for clients?"

My blood turned to ice instantly.

"Get lost." My voice was low as winter, my right hand instinctively reaching for my waist. "Or you'll regret it."

"Haha!" Another scrawny monkey-like guy laughed maniacally. "Listen to this! The little bitch is threatening us! Vincent's been dead for three years—who do you think you are now?"

The third one, a fat guy, circled around. The three formed a triangle, trapping me. The street suddenly went eerily quiet, only the distant music from the nightclub in the air.

"No one's protecting you now, little princess." Stubble-face reached out his dirty hand. "How about having a drink with us?"

I stepped back, hitting the wall. Damn Lucas, leaving me here to die.

Just then—

A black Cadillac Escalade glided silently to the curb.

The body reflected the streetlights like a prowling black panther. No engine noise, no music, not even the sound of tires on asphalt.

The thugs froze.

The car door opened.

A handmade Italian leather shoe stepped onto the pavement.

Then a tall figure emerged from the vehicle.

My world stopped spinning.

Vincent Benedetti.

A fresh scar ran from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. His tailored suit was impeccable, but those eyes—God, those eyes were colder than a Siberian winter.

Three years. Three whole years. I thought he had turned to ash, scattered in the ruins of Sicily. I thought I'd never see him again, never hear him say my name, never feel his warmth again.

But he was here. Standing right in front of me, real and alive.

My heart pounded, blood boiling, the entire world spinning. I wanted to run to him, to embrace him, to confirm this wasn't a hallucination. I wanted to cry, to laugh, to ask where he'd been these three years, to tell him how much I'd missed him.

But when he looked at me, my world collapsed again.

Those eyes... they didn't hold the warmth from three years ago, not the gaze of the man who would gently stroke my hair when I cried. This was the indifference of a stranger, the apathy reserved for random passersby, a rejection colder than death itself.

No embrace. No comfort. Not even a flicker of surprise.

As if I wasn't his long-lost ward, not the little girl he once cherished, not the Gloria who cried herself to breakdown after his "death."

As if I was nothing.

I felt my heart breaking inch by inch, ten thousand times more painful than being humiliated by Lucas.

He simply said one word:

"Home."

His voice brooked no argument, like a judgment day verdict.

The three thugs turned to stone instantly. Stubble-face went whiter than a corpse, Skinny's legs began shaking, and Fatty collapsed straight to the ground.

Two men in black emerged from the other side of the car, moving silent as shadows. They didn't draw guns, didn't pull knives, didn't even touch those three wastes—merely standing there, their killing intent rolled out like a tide.

The three thugs scrambled up and disappeared into the darkness, crawling away.

Vincent didn't even glance at them.

"Miss Gloria." A driver stepped out from another ordinary sedan, carefully opening the car door for me.

I mechanically got into the car, watching through the rearview mirror as Vincent got into his own luxury vehicle. He didn't let me ride with him.

Like I was a stranger.

The engines started, both cars moving slowly forward. Through the rear window, I saw the nightclub doors suddenly burst open as Lucas rushed out like a madman, his cronies trailing behind.

Lucas's face was deathly pale under the neon lights, his mouth hanging open wide enough to fit an egg. He stared at Vincent's taillights, struck by lightning.

"That's impossible..." his voice trembled in the night wind. "He's dead... he's fucking dead!"

His friends exchanged glances, some backing away. Everyone knew the legend: If Vincent Benedetti doesn't die, the world knows no peace.

"Miss Gloria, the Don has truly returned," the driver said softly, his voice filled with awe and fear.

I closed my eyes, tears sliding down silently.

Yes, he was back.

The man I'd loved for fifteen years was back.

But he looked at me like I was a complete stranger.

The night outside was ink-black, my heart shattered into pieces.

Why? Vincent, why are you treating me this way?

I remembered the explosion in Sicily three years ago, the night he was declared dead, every deep night I held his photo and cried myself unconscious.

And now he was alive, back home, but I felt like I'd lost his heart.

The convoy drove toward the Benedetti estate, the manor in the darkness like a sleeping castle. But tonight, Death had come home.

In the rearview mirror, Lucas still stood at the nightclub entrance like a statue struck by lightning.

I suddenly understood something: the substitute game was over.

No matter how much I hated Vincent's current coldness, no matter how many pieces my heart broke into, one truth would never change—I never loved Lucas. The one I loved was always Vincent Benedetti.

Even if he now looked at me like a stranger, even if his return carried the chill of death, even if I didn't know what he'd experienced these three years, why his jaw bore that terrible scar.

The car turned the last corner, the estate's iron gates slowly opening ahead.

I took a deep breath and wiped the tears from my cheeks.

Maybe his coldness had other reasons. Maybe I still had a chance to explain everything.

But no matter what, I had to let him know—

I've been waiting for you to come home every moment, Vincent.