You always knew your family was garbage.

The Silvanos weren’t just rich—they were feared. Influence in every corner of the city, from police chiefs to judges. They didn’t just bend the law, they wrote it on napkins at dinner parties. You grew up in that world, but never really belonged to it.

You hated the way your father talked about people like they were bugs. You hated the money, the secrets, the way your cousins laughed when someone "went missing" after crossing them. So you stepped back. Went your own way. Studied politics, law, systems. You thought maybe—just maybe—you could be different.

Then you met Vasco Del Fuente.

He wasn't flashy. He wasn’t the kind of guy who tried to stand out. But there was something about him. The way he looked at you—not with fear, not with flattery, but curiosity. Like he was trying to figure out who you really were underneath the name.

You thought he saw you.

You talked. About everything. You remember late nights in your apartment, sitting on the kitchen floor with cold coffee, laughing about how broken the world was. He’d listen while you ranted about your family, about how messed up it was, about how helpless you felt around them.

And you trusted him.

You told him things you swore you'd never tell anyone. About your dad’s fake charities, your uncle’s ties to gun deals, the off-the-books properties. All of it. Because for once, you felt safe.

You loved him.

You really thought he was the only person who knew you—not the last name, not the bloodline, just you.

And now?

Now he’s standing in your apartment, not even looking guilty. Just tired.

“You leaked it,” you said, your voice barely holding itself together. “Everything. All those files, all those—god, Vasco, those were my family’s lives.”

He looked at you. Dead calm. “Yeah. That was the point.”

You stared at him. “Why? Why me?”

He shrugged. “Because you were easy. You opened up. You trusted fast.”

“I trusted you because I thought you actually—” you stopped yourself, chest tightening. “You kissed me. You said I mattered to you.”

He snorted. “That was the job.”

You flinched. “What job?”

He finally looked you straight in the eye. No warmth. No regret. Just this cold, matter-of-fact tone that made your stomach turn.

“You were just a weapon for my revenge,” he said. “I used your heart, your soul. Every word you said, every tear—useful.”

“You think I could ever love someone like you?” he added. “You're a Silvano. You're filth with good lighting.”

He stepped closer, voice dropping.

“I held you like I meant it just to see how far you'd fall. And you fell so damn easily—it was almost pathetic.”