Isabella’s POV
Three years later.
The small town in Maine was as peaceful as ever, a little slice of paradise.

My seaside hotel was a success, a popular spot for tourists.
No one knew the owner was once the Donna of the New York Mafia. No one knew about the blood and chaos of the past.
Petra and her sister opened a bakery in town, creating new cake recipes every day. Sofia married a kind local fisherman and had a beautiful daughter. Mama R filled her backyard with flowers and spent her days in the sun.
Everyone had started a new life.
So had I.
It was my birthday again.

My friends were celebrating with me inside. The warm, yellow light from the windows glowed on the snow outside.
"Bella, make a wish," Sofia said with a smile, pushing the cake toward me.
I closed my eyes.
I didn't wish for happiness, or love, or peace. I simply wished for enough. For this moment, right here, to be enough.

As I blew out the candles, I glanced out the window without thinking.
The snow was falling heavily. The streetlamp cast a lonely light on the quiet scene.
Suddenly, my gaze froze.
Under the lamp, a stooped figure seemed to be standing there.
He wore an old coat and a worn-out hat, so thin it looked like he would cough up his own bones.
He was watching the party from a distance, not daring to come closer. Like a ghost afraid of disturbing a beautiful dream.
The snow was too heavy to see his face clearly.
But I felt that familiar, sorrowful gaze.
I stared for a long moment, my knuckles white as I gripped the cake knife.
Until the figure slowly turned, his steps heavy and slow, and disappeared into the dark, snowy night. He never looked back.
The next morning, the town sheriff knocked on my door.
"Ms. Isabella, we found an unidentified body in a snowbank by the road."
The sheriff sighed and handed me a photograph.
"Looks like he froze to death, or maybe he was sick. He had no ID on him. The only thing he was holding was this picture."
The photograph was well-preserved, though the edges were worn.
It was a picture of me, from years ago, by Lake Como. I was smiling, bright and carefree. My eyes were full of love.
On the back of the photo, there were dried bloodstains and a few crookedly written words:
"Happy birthday, my Donna."
I stared at the photo. I waited for the sting of pain, or the heat of triumph. Nothing came. There was only a quiet exhale, like letting go of a breath I'd been holding for years.
"I don't know him," I said, my voice perfectly steady. I handed the photo back to the sheriff.
"Bury him in the public cemetery."
The sheriff nodded and left.
I stood at the door, looking toward the distant cemetery.
The snow had covered everything.
Love, hate.
It was all over.
I closed the door, shutting out the cold. Inside, the fire was warm, my friends were laughing. My life was here.
And the man in the snow... was finally gone.