Chapter 4

　　In the evening, Rosa met Dr. DeLuca for dinner. Lucy had insisted she wear something nice rather than those boring clothes and had lent her her hottest outfit: a white crop top and black mini skirt.

　　After placing their orders, he looked at her seriously and said, "The stem cell transplant is going to be very expensive. You should be prepared."

　　"I'll do anything to pay for the treatment," Rosa replied desperately. "Can you help me find an organ recipient? I want to sell one of mine."

　　Dr. DeLuca pressed his lips together, staring at the woman before him with an intensity that made her feel awkward.

　　Finally, he exhaled and said firmly, "I won't let you do that, Rosa. And I've already told you that for the treatment—I'm already in talks with one of the largest charity organizations that supports cases like this. I'm confident they'll agree to cover the expenses."

　　Rosa suddenly looked overwhelmed with emotion. "Thank you so much, Dr. DeLuca. I can't express how much this means to me. I'll be indebted to you for the rest of my life." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. When she had thought every door was closed, when even her own family had turned away, here he was—willing to help her without any obligation or relation.

　　"First of all, call me Samuele," he said gently. "And I'm a doctor—it's my duty to ensure my patients get the treatment they need and recover."

　　"Still… you're like a godsend to me. I can't even thank you enough."

　　"That's fine, Rosa. Don't overthink it," Dr. DeLuca chuckled softly and covered her hand with his, a quiet gesture of comfort.

　　But just then, someone grabbed her arm and yanked her out of her chair with such force she gasped in pain.

　　"Ow—what the hell—?"

　　"You really don't waste time, do you?" came a cold, menacing voice.

　　Rosa's eyes widened in shock as she turned and saw Don Luciano Mancini standing there, fury blazing in his eyes and his jaw clenched tight. "Already moving on to the next man? Is that what this is?"

　　Luciano's cold blue eyes narrowed as they locked on the woman laughing softly across the table from another man.

　　His ex-wife.

　　His blood boiled.

　　She looked like sin wrapped in silk—a knee-length black skirt clinging to her hips, a white crop top hugging that fuckable little body, blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders like she walked out of a wet dream. And across from her sat some polished prick in a suit, bold enough to rest his damn hand over hers like she already belonged to him.

　　Luciano's fists clenched.

　　So this is what she'd sunk to? Playing high-class slut in fancy hotels, spreading her legs for any man with a fat wallet?

　　A bitter taste filled his mouth as memories came flooding back. Five years ago, after that night—the one he couldn't remember because Rosa had drugged him—he'd woken up naked beside her, blood staining the sheets. Panic had gripped him. And then Laura, Rosa's cousin and his girlfriend at the time, had told him that Rosa had staged the whole thing, faking her being a virgin and even using blood as part of a trap to tie him down with guilt. Laura had also claimed that Rosa had always been a gold digger, that she'd slept around before, and only wanted to stake a claim to his name—to trap him in their unwanted marriage forever.

　　The fury that had followed was blinding. He'd felt violated, manipulated, humiliated. No one had ever dared to play him like that. No one made a fool out of him.

　　And the Italian Don had decided to make his cunning little wife pay for her filth. He divorced her and sent her away, wanting nothing more than to erase that deceptively innocent face from his life. Back then, he was young and blinded by rage. Over time, a part of him had questioned if he'd been too harsh.

　　But that guilt vanished after seeing her last night—playing the same damn trick all over again. She hadn't changed. They said looks could be deceiving, and with her, that saying couldn't be more true. Now, seeing her whoring herself out for money in luxury hotels, he felt no regret. She deserved every bit of what he did to her.

　　The fury only intensified when he saw her shamelessly laughing with that man, seducing him with those innocent looks and dangerously alluring beauty.

　　Such a bitch.

　　Hadn't she been screaming his name all night? Moaning beneath him like she couldn't get enough—clawing at his back, begging him not to stop as he buried himself deep in her tight, soaking heat and drove into her again and again?

　　And now… now she didn't even wait a goddamn day before crawling back into another man's lap?

　　Was she that desperate? For sex? For money? Or both?

　　Why would he care if she slept with the whole city? He didn't care for a whore. Would he?

　　But what enraged him even more was the burning in his chest—the thought of her using the same seductive tricks, those sensual moves she'd used on him last night, now on another man.

　　Would she moan that bastard's name the way she screamed his when he was buried deep inside her?

　　Would that man touch her the same way he did just hours ago, like he owned every inch of her?

　　The fury boiled over. Before he could think rationally, he was at their table, grabbing her hand and yanking her toward him.

　　Her soft brown eyes blinked up at him before panic spread across her face.

　　"Mr. Mancini… w-what are you doing here?"

　　"Come with me," Luciano said coldly, already grabbing her wrist and dragging her with him.

　　"Hey, mister! Leave her alone!"