Bella

The moment my flight touched down in New York, the finality of my departure from Marco's world settled heavily on me. Seeing Olivia waiting at the gate, her face a mixture of concern and sisterly love, the walls I had built around my emotions crumbled. Tears, a rare expression for me, streamed down my face as she embraced me. Her presence was both a comfort and a reminder of the family and world I still belonged to.

Arriving at our parents' house, I braced myself for reactions, questions, maybe even a confrontation. Yet, to my surprise, the topic of my abrupt return and the events that led to it seemed conspicuously absent from any conversation. My father, from whom I half-expected some comment or reprimand, remained silent on the matter. This lack of acknowledgement only added to the swirling confusion and hurt inside me.

Retreating to my room, I sought refuge in the familiar surroundings, but the solace I usually found there eluded me. Lying in bed, I grappled with a whirlwind of emotions - betrayal, heartbreak, anger, and a deep sense of loss. The experience with Marco, though brief, had been intense and transformative, and now it was over, leaving a void that seemed impossible to fill.

As I lay there, I wished I could be as unaffected and stoic as I had always prided myself on being. Emotions, with their raw intensity and ability to render one so vulnerable, were a burden I would rather have not borne. In that moment, I felt them as acutely as a physical wound, a pain I would have willingly wished on my enemies rather than experience myself. But in the depth of that emotional turmoil, there was also a glimmer of understanding - that feeling so deeply, even in pain, was a part of the human experience, a part of living and loving fiercely, and perhaps, in some twisted way, it was better to have felt and lost than never to have felt at all.

Marco

The night after Bella left felt surreal, like a world tilted off its axis. I found myself stepping out, seeking something, anything, to fill the void she left behind. Her absence was a tangible presence, and in trying to escape it, I ended up at my club, drowning my thoughts in an endless stream of drinks. Women approached me and the ideal of being interested made me sick to my stomach. I want Bella. If I could do it over pride wouldn't get in my way this time. I need more alcohol.

It was a futile attempt to numb the pain, to forget the turmoil that was now my life. The reality was, I had pushed away the one person who had come to mean so much to me, all because I was intimidated by the respect and presence she commanded effortlessly.

In the haze of alcohol, my phone rang. For a fleeting second, I hoped it was Bella, but the name "Keta" flashing on the screen brought me crashing back to reality. "What?" I answered, my voice edged with irritation.

"I hope you and your slut are happy because things are about to get very tough for you both," Keta spat out before hanging up. Ever since I had chosen Bella over her, Keta had been a constant source of threats and hostility. But now, with Bella gone and our relationship a casualty of my own indecision, Keta's words barely registered.

As I was about to dismiss the call and return to my self-imposed exile in alcohol, my phone rang again. Without looking, I answered irritably, "What, Keta?"

But it wasn't Keta. It was my mother, her voice soft yet laced with a distress I hadn't heard before. "Marco, it's me."

Instantly sobered by her tone, I stepped outside for clarity. "Mama?" I asked, a growing sense of unease taking hold.

"Your father... Someone... shot him," she sobbed into the phone, her pain piercing through the line. She told me the hospital they were rushing him to.

In that moment, everything else faded away - the heartbreak, the club's noise, the night's darkness. All that remained was a profound sense of urgency and fear. I had to get to my father, to be there for my family. The complexity of my emotions for Bella, the issues with Keta, all paled in comparison to this new, terrifying reality. My father, the strong, unyielding head of our family, was vulnerable, and I needed to be there. I ended the call and rushed to my car, the events of the past days suddenly seeming trivial in the face of this crisis.

Arriving at the hospital in a whirlwind of panic and fear, I barely managed to stop my car properly before rushing towards the entrance. Felipe, my cousin and someone I trusted implicitly, was waiting there, his usual composure replaced by a look of profound sorrow. The tears brimming in his eyes sent a jolt of dread through me.

"Marco..." he began, his voice choked with emotion.

I couldn't even let him finish. "No... Where's Mama?" I asked, my voice desperate, needing to see her, to be there for her.

He just nodded towards the interior of the hospital, and I dashed inside. Finding my mother was heartbreaking. She was on the floor, a picture of utter despair, her grief manifesting in heart-wrenching sobs and screams. I went to her, holding her tightly, trying to offer some semblance of comfort. "I'm so sorry, Mama," I whispered, but words felt so futile in the face of such loss.

Gathering strength I didn't feel, I walked into the room where my father lay. Seeing him there, so still and lifeless, was surreal. He appeared peaceful, as if merely sleeping, but the terrible finality of the scene was unmistakable. I took his hand, the cold reality hitting me like a physical blow.

A surge of rage began to build within me, growing with each passing second. It was a torrent of anger, sorrow, and vengeance, threatening to overflow. My father, the man who had been a pillar of strength, a figure both feared and respected, was gone. And with his passing, the landscape of our world had irrevocably changed.

As I stood there, holding his hand, I felt a resolve hardening within me. This wasn't just a personal loss; it was an attack on our family, on everything we stood for. Whoever was responsible had not just taken my father's life; they had declared war. And I, now thrust into a role I wasn't sure I was ready for, knew that retribution was not just expected; it was inevitable. The weight of my next actions would carry consequences far beyond this room, but in that moment, all I could feel was the overwhelming need for justice, for revenge.

Bella

Lying in bed, my mind was a tumult of emotions, swirling and colliding in the aftermath of everything that had happened. The idea of leading the Romano family seemed more daunting than ever. Lost in these thoughts, my phone rang, snapping me back to the present. It was Nonno, a call I had been expecting yet dreading.

"Hey, Nonno," I answered, trying to sound composed.

"Principessa," he replied, his voice weary and unlike himself.

"What's wrong?" I asked, immediately sensing something amiss.

Before he could answer, Keta's voice cut through, chilling me to the bone. "What's wrong is he's got about 2 minutes before his oxygen machine gives out of air. I never understood why people delay the inevitable, he clearly doesn't have a lot of time left in him."

The shock of hearing her voice, the realization of what she was implying, sent waves of fear and anger through me. "What the hell are you doing in Italy?" I demanded, struggling to keep my voice steady.

"We had a meeting, and your grandfather was stalling. So, I decided to pay him a little visit," Keta said nonchalantly. "He wouldn't give you up, not for all the gold in the world."

In the background, I heard Nonno's voice, strained but defiant. "Non preoccuparti, la vendetta non è mai dolce come sembra." Don't worry, revenge is never as sweet as it sounds.

Keta's reply was cold and calculated. "Don't worry, I'm ready for war."

Her threat hung in the air, a stark reminder of the dangerous game we were all part of. "When my grandfather's oxygen runs out, I will bury him and mourn," I said, my voice hard with resolve. "But I assure you, no one will be left to mourn you." The line went dead.

As I hung up the phone, a sense of clarity overtook the chaos in my mind. I knew what I had to do. This was no longer just about me or my struggles with identity and belonging. It was about family, legacy, and the ruthless world we were all entangled in. I was a Romano, and it was time to step into that role, not just for Nonno, but for the future of our family. The path ahead was fraught with danger and retribution, but I was ready. The time for mourning would come, but first, there was a war to be fought.