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What right did I have to expect her to run into my arms?

But I'd be damned if I let her go.

Four years. I'd paved the East Coast with gangster blood and DeLuca bones to clear every obstacle for Moretti. For one reason—so I could bring her back into the light clean.

Now she was back.

Carrying the pride she'd sewn with her own hands. Carrying that Wild Rose micro-brand. Standing on the Manhattan stage again.

"Ruby."

I pressed that yellowed photo to my lips, let the soul-tearing obsession burn through my chest. Whispered into the dead night.

"Don't even think about leaving me... not in this lifetime."

Chapter 29

Ruby

The preliminary round notification email hit my phone at seven a.m. Monday.

I stared at the line on the screen—"Hilton Midtown Manhattan, Third Floor Conference Hall, Tuesday 9:00 AM sharp"—my thumb hovering over the delete button. I couldn't press it.

Leon sprawled at the foot of the bed drawing, his little legs swinging back and forth as he hummed a tuneless Italian nursery rhyme. Morning light filtered through the hotel room's sheer curtains, gilding his deep brown curls.

"Mamma, look!" He held up his paper, a chaotic mess of crayon scribbles. "It's a pigeon!"

"That's wonderful, baby." I set down my phone and ruffled his hair.

He grinned wide, showing tiny teeth, then ducked his head back to his drawing.

I picked up my phone again. Looked at that email.

Go, or don't go?

Last night's disaster of a reunion still felt too raw—when he appeared in that ballroom doorway, my breath stopped cold. Four years. I'd thought I was strong enough now, independent enough, to face him calmly.

Turned out I'd overestimated myself.

When he walked up to me, looked at me with those burning, focused eyes, and said in that low voice, "Long time, Ruby," I practically ran.

The rest of the night I avoided his gaze like a coward, hiding in clusters of other designers, pretending to network while making damn sure not even a glance strayed his direction.

When I left the ballroom, he stood in the shadows of the second-floor terrace, cigarette between his fingers, watching me through the crowd.

I pretended not to see. Pulled my wrap tight. Didn't look back as I dove into the Uber.

By now he probably thought I was pathetic—some woman he'd thrown out of New York four years ago, now crawling back to compete, too chickenshit to even make eye contact.

Fine.

Distance was better for both of us.

Last night's awkward reunion should've made it clear to him that there was nothing left between us. He could go on being his mob boss billionaire self; I'd keep my head down and design, and when the competition ended, I'd take Leon back to Venice. Separate ways. Clean break.

As long as he never found out about Leon...

I looked at my son, still absorbed in his drawing, and felt that familiar twist of complicated emotions.