One o'clock became one-thirty.
One-thirty stretched into two.
He had summoned me.
And yet he was the one who did not appear.
I sent several messages. Each one disappeared into the void, swallowed by whatever silence he deemed more important than our final meeting.
Finally, two words materialized on my screen.
Busy.
Then my phone rang—an unknown number with a Riverdale prefix.
"Signorina Mancini?"
The voice was familiar. Efficient. Loyal to a fault.
"This is Marco Ferrante. The Young Don asked me to inform you that an urgent matter arose. He cannot get away to meet you."
I said nothing.
This was hardly unexpected. Three years of marriage had taught me exactly where I ranked in Nico Volpe's hierarchy of priorities.
Marco continued, his tone carefully neutral—the voice of a soldier delivering orders he had not been asked to question.
"Don Nico wanted me to tell you that he's already arranged for you to see a specialist in England—a surgeon who works on hand bone and muscle repair. He'll have everything set up for your treatment and recovery."
A pause.
"Also, he's transferred another twenty million to your account. For living expenses. Medical costs. Whatever you need."
I held the phone in my left hand—my good hand—while my right gripped the handle of my luggage. The leather bit into the ridges of scar tissue that would never fully heal.
The refusal rose to my lips.
I don't want your money. I don't want your guilt offerings. I don't want anything that carries the weight of the Volpe name.
Then I looked up.
Across the street.
In an open-air café bathed in afternoon light.
Nico and Massima.
Sitting together.
Laughing.
She ducked her head, that practiced gesture of feminine softness she had perfected over years of manipulation. Her smile was demure, calculated—the expression of a woman who knew exactly how to make powerful men feel like protectors.
And Nico—
Nico reached across the small table and brushed a strand of dark hair from her forehead.
The gesture was tender.
Intimate.
The sunlight was beautiful. Golden light spilled over them both, turning the scene into something from a painting—two lovers reunited, the world soft and warm around them.
The smile on his face was relaxed. Content. Alive in a way I had never seen in three years of sharing his bed, his name, his blood oath.
I had given him everything.
My career. My hands. My future.