Massima's cheeks flushed as she accepted the ring box. Diamonds glittered against black velvet—a ring that probably cost more than my family's entire holdings.
Everyone around them burst into applause. Soldiers, associates, bought doctors—all of them celebrating the Young Don's romantic gesture.
He leaned in and kissed her.
I touched my own lips without thinking.
How long had it been since he'd touched me?
Over a thousand days and nights.
I'd lost count.
Around me, he hadn't just been mute.
He'd been almost pathologically distant. Cold. Untouchable. A husband in name only, bound to me by blood oath and Family obligation, but never—never—by choice.
But now—
He kissed her without a shred of hesitation. His hands cupped her face like she was something precious. Something worth protecting.
Something I had never been.
Suddenly, the world felt like some absurd stage. A cruel comedy written by a God with a taste for tragedy.
My blood-bound husband, the one with selective mutism—
Publicly proposing to his former lover.
In the same building where his wife lay recovering from injuries his woman had caused.
So that was it.
Not loving someone was the original sin.
And I had been guilty from the very beginning.
I lingered in the shadows of the city until the evening bled into night.
Purchased a new phone from a discreet vendor who knew better than to ask questions. Filed a report with the local precinct—a formality, nothing more. The cops in this territory were bought and paid for, but paperwork left a trail, and trails could be useful.
Then I finalized my arrangements with a contact who specialized in moving people across borders quietly. Washington territory. Genovese protection. A flight in ten days.
I would study while I healed. Rebuild what remained of my life in a place where the Volpe name held no power over me.
By the time I returned to the safe house, the grandfather clock in the foyer was striking seven.
The rooms had been only half-cleared, yet dust had already begun to settle over the surfaces like a funeral shroud. The air tasted of abandonment—stale, cold, untouched.
I knew then. He had never come back. Not once.
After forcing down a simple meal I could barely taste, I resumed sorting through his belongings. Silk ties. Monogrammed cufflinks. The detritus of a life I had shared but never truly inhabited.
The door clicked open.
Nico.