Lorenzo's POV
A dive bar in New York. The air stank of cheap booze, sweat, and vomit.
The city’s sewer. A cesspool for scum. Home.

I sat in a dark corner, my fifth glass of whiskey in front of me.
The alcohol burned my throat, a searing pain. But it couldn't burn away the voice chanting in my head:
"Isabella Rossi has likely been erased from the world."
The old Don's words were seared into my mind.
I didn't believe it.
I didn't care if the whole world said she was dead, her body rotting in the Hudson. I didn't believe it.

I pulled out the old, dead phone and connected it to a portable charger.
The screen lit up. The wallpaper stabbed me in the eyes, blurring my vision.
It was from our honeymoon at Lake Como. Isabella in a white dress, standing in the sun, smiling like an angel. Her eyes were full of stars. Back then, her eyes were only for me. I was her whole world.
And now, here I was. A filthy, stray dog who didn't even have the right to look at her.

"Hey, handsome. All alone?"
A woman in a dress that was too tight and a perfume that was too cheap slid into the seat across from me. Her eyes had a bored, predatory gleam. The kind of woman who feeds on broken men.
"Get lost." I didn't even look up. My finger gently stroked Isabella's face on the screen, terrified I might smudge it.
"Hey, don't be so mean." The woman didn't leave. She leaned closer, and the foul smell made me want to puke. "What's so interesting? An ex? She's not even all that."
She reached for my phone, her tone flippant. "Let me see the woman who's got you looking like death."
CRACK!
My hand shot out like a viper and clamped down on her wrist.
The force was so great I could hear the bones strain.
"Ahhh! Are you crazy?!" the woman screamed. Her cigarette fell, burning a hole in the carpet.
"Who gave you permission to touch her?"
I slowly lifted my head. My bloodshot eyes locked onto hers. My voice was raw, like I'd swallowed hot coals. A beastly growl.
"Your filthy hands don't get to touch her. You don't even get to breathe the same air."
"Hey! Let her go, you bastard!"
The guys from the next table saw what was happening and charged over, grabbing beer bottles. They were dressed in fancy clothes, but it couldn't hide the viciousness in their eyes.
"Do you have any fucking idea who we are?"
"Let's kill this psycho!"
A bottle smashed against my back. Glass shattered, tearing through my shirt and digging into my flesh.
Before, my bodyguards would have chopped them into dog food.
But now, I was alone. Cast out by my family. Exiled by the woman I loved.
The pain was sharp, but I didn't let go. I held the phone tighter.
It was the only thing Isabella left me.
It was my life.
"You're asking for it!"
I shot up, kicking the man with the bottle square in the chest.
Years of combat training and pent-up rage exploded in that moment.
I was a cornered beast, rampaging through the cramped bar.
Fists flew. A nose broke with a wet crunch. A bone snapped. I didn't hear the screams. I was deaf to everything but the frantic pounding in my own chest.
All I knew was that anyone who touched that phone was a dead man.
In the chaos, someone attacked me from behind, kicking my wrist hard.
The phone flew out of my hand, arcing through the air toward the middle of the dance floor.
"NO—!!"
A gut-wrenching scream tore from my throat. My heart stopped. I lunged for it without a second thought, like a man diving off a cliff.
I didn't care about the blows to my back, or being stomped on, or the feeling of my ribs cracking.
I crawled through the filth—broken glass, spilled whiskey, blood. The shards of glass shredded my knees, but I didn't feel it.
Finally, my hand covered the phone.
The screen was still lit. Isabella was still smiling at me.
It wasn't broken. Thank God.
I pressed the phone to my chest, curling around it, protecting it like it was my own heart.
I let the fists and feet rain down on me.
Go ahead. Beat me. Kill me.
Just don't break it. Just as long as she's still smiling at me.
"Psycho... he's a fucking psycho..."
The rich kids got tired. They looked down at me, covered in blood but still smiling faintly, and a look of real fear crossed their faces. They had never seen someone who didn't care about dying.
Someone was filming with their phone. The flash blinded me.
I didn't care.
I struggled to turn over. My bloody fingers gently wiped a drop of blood from the screen, the motion as tender as caressing a lover's face.
"Bella..."
I whispered to the girl on the screen, tears mixing with the blood in my mouth. It tasted salty and bitter.
"I protected you... No one can touch you..."
"I'm sorry... I miss you so much..."
"Please... don't leave me..."
The next day, the video went viral on the dark web.
The title was: THE FALLEN DON: LORENZO ROMANO'S PUBLIC MELTDOWN.
In the video, the once untouchable Don of New York was being beaten like a dog, all to protect an old phone.
Someone amplified the audio, making out the name I kept repeating.
It wasn't a plea for mercy. It wasn't a curse.
Just one word, filled with blood-soaked despair.
"Bella."