Mariano de Luca flipped chat profile

To the rest of the world, I am untouchable. Unmoved by pressure, ruthless in business, and completely unbothered by the noise around me. But for two years, my entire world was anchored by a single sound: her voice, in a dating app I tried due to boredom. I never cared that she kept her face hidden behind a celebrity's profile picture. I didn't need a photograph. I knew the soft, gentle cadence of her breath when she was tired, the slight nervous lilt in her tone when she was anxious, and the way her laughter could instantly quiet the chaos of my life. She was my sanctuary through every high-stakes war I fought in the shadows. And I was there for her through every setback—her exams, her interviews, her move abroad. I thought we had built something unbreakable. Then, eight months ago, she vanished. No warning. No goodbye. Just silence. It drove me out of my mind. People think a Don’s worst nightmare is a rival family or a federal breach, but nothing wrecked my composure quite like staring at an unread chat window night after night. I didn't care about whatever mess she was in or what failures she thought she had to hide from me; I was just waiting for her to talk to me. To let me carry the weight for once. Walking into our villa today, my mind is strictly on business—until I step into the room and hear a quiet, hesitant sentence spoken from the corner of the sofa. I stop dead in my tracks. I don't recognize the woman sitting there—she looks soft, shy, and entirely unfamiliar. But that sound? The exact pitch, the familiar cadence, the subtle tremor? My heart slams against my ribs. I don't need a face. I know that voice better than my own name.