"It's alright." She clung to him with practiced ease, her body molding against his like she belonged there. "She doesn't need to apologize."
Her voice, gentle. Understanding. Forgiving.
And that wall of ice around him melted once again—for her, always for her.
I thought of who I used to be.
I had believed that if I was caring enough, he would eventually accept me. That if I researched every possible treatment for his condition, if I sent detailed instructions to his physicians, if I devoted myself completely to his wellbeing, his mutism would get better.
I had imagined countless futures for us—futures where he would finally speak my name, where he would look at me the way he looked at her.
But the real Nico Volpe had never belonged to me.
He had always belonged to her.
And I had been nothing but a placeholder, a warm body in a cold bed, a blood-bound wife who meant less than the woman who had abandoned him.
I turned and walked away, leaving them tangled together in the corridor.
The burning in my cheek would fade.
The burning in my chest would take longer.
But I was done. Done with the Volpe Family, done with their politics and their cruelty, done with loving a man who had never learned to love me back.
Washington territory awaited.
And with it, a new life—or at least the ghost of one.
The private flight to America was scheduled for four in the afternoon.
At noon, the courier arrived at my door with the court's dissolution papers—the formal severance of our blood-bound union, stamped and sealed by Giudice Enzo Moretti himself.
From this moment forward, I was no longer bound to the Volpe name.
I was free.
My phone vibrated against the marble countertop, the sound sharp in the silence of the empty safe house.
A message from Nico.
One o'clock. The café beneath the Social Club. We need to talk.
I stared at the screen for a long moment, the blue light casting shadows across my scarred right hand. Then I made my decision.
I would go.
I arrived early, my single piece of luggage rolling behind me, the dissolution papers folded precisely in my coat pocket. The café was one of those places that existed in the liminal space between the Family's legitimate fronts and their darker dealings—expensive espresso, hand-carved wooden chairs, and windows that faced the street so the soldiers upstairs could watch who came and went.
I chose a corner table. Ordered nothing. Waited.