Blood Oath Broken The Don's Regret

I'm Nico Volpe, and I want to make a confession to the woman I love.

Sleep had abandoned me hours ago. In the hollow darkness of the Volpe estate, I reached for the radio on my nightstanda relic from another era, kept because the static reminded me of simpler times. The dial crackled, and then his voice poured through the speakers like aged whiskey, rich and magnetic.

My husband's voice. The same husband who hadn't spoken a word to me in three months.

The same husband who suffered from selective mutismor so I had been told.

I had been blood-bound to Nico Volpe for three years. For the first two, we managed a handful of stilted exchanges, words rationed like contraband across enemy lines. But these past ninety days? Even when we sat across from each other in the candlelit silence of the dining room, even when his dark eyes met mine over untouched plates of food, he couldn'twouldn'tutter a single syllable.

"It's been three years since we last saw each other. I can't wait for tomorrow."

The words slithered through the radio like smoke, intimate and aching. They were clearly not meant for me.

"I love you, Massima Gallo."

His voice had never carried so much raw emotionnot when he'd placed the ring on my finger, not when he'd sealed our blood oath with a kiss as cold as marble. The confession ended, and the late-night host gushed with praise and envy, utterly unaware that he had just broadcast the death knell of my marriage to half the Eastern Seaboard.

I sat frozen against the mahogany headboard, the silk sheets pooled around my waist like spilled wine. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked on, indifferent to my unraveling.

I had been given to Nico through an arrangementan alliance marriage between the Mancini Family and the Volpe Syndicate, brokered by powers far greater than teenage dreams. My father had presented me like tribute, and I had gone willingly. One look at Nico Volpe, with his sharp jaw and eyes like black ice, and I had fallen. Hard. Foolishly.

He remained frozen. A statue carved from winter.

The only explanation I ever received came from his mother during our first meeting, in the rose garden of the Volpe compound while armed men patrolled the perimeter.

"Isabella Mancini, dear, please try to understand..." The Donna had taken my hands in hers, her grip surprisingly warm. "Nico has selective mutism. He cannot speaknot to most people. Not about most things."

I reached for my phone now and called her.

"Isabella?" Elena Volpe's voice was alert despite the hour. In our world, phones rang at all hours, and rarely with good news. "Why are you still awake, child?"

My nose stung. My voice cracked like thin ice. "Did you know Massima is back?"

The silence on the other end was its own answer.

"I'm sorry, Isabella..." The Donna's voice softened with something that might have been genuine regret. "I wasn't honest with you three years ago. Nico's mutismit started when Massima left. She was... she was his world, before. The daughter of the Gallo family, before their disgrace. When she fled to Europe, something in him broke."

I heard her exhale, the sound of a woman carrying too many secrets.

"I had no choice but to push him into that arranged meeting with you. Your father was eager for the alliance. And Nico needed... he needed something. Someone."

"Ridiculous, isn't it?" A bitter laugh escaped her. "The heir apparent to the Volpe Crime Family, the Young Don who will one day command half the Eastern Seaboardand he can't speak a word to his own blood wife. But don't worry, dear. No matter what happens, I'll keep that boy in line. Massima Gallo is nothing but common trash dressed in designer clothes. She will not destroy this Family."

I don't remember hanging up. I don't remember how I survived that long, lonely night, staring at the shadows that crawled across the ceiling like accusations.

Back then, when I first learned of his condition, I had researched everything I could. I'd pulled medical journals from the Family's underground archives, consulted with physicians on the Volpe payroll, read until my eyes burned. One line under "causes" had stood out like a brand:

Severe external trauma.

I didn't understand. I asked around the Volpe compound, approached capos and soldiers and household staff, but no one would give me a straight answer. Omert extended even to thisthe silence protected him from his own wife.

So I tried everything.

Therapy sessions with specialists flown in from Milan. Experimental treatments that cost more than most men earned in a lifetime. Comfort food prepared by my own hands in the massive kitchen while the cook watched in bewilderment. I dragged him to shows and performances, anything to crack that frozen exterior. I laughed until my sides ached at a comedy club downtown, tears streaming down my face.

He sat beside me, rigid and silent as a tombstone.

It wasn't until the night he proposed that he seemed to summon every ounce of willpower he possessedjust to force two words past his lips.

"Marry me."

The joy I felt then was equal to the devastation I felt now.

Of course I couldn't cure Nico's mutism. I was never the cure. I was the bandage slapped over a wound that belonged to someone else.

Bitterness pooled in my chest like poison, followed by a creeping dread that wrapped around my throat: his cure had returned. Massima Gallo had crawled back from her European exile, and she had come to reclaim what she believed was hers.

So where did that leave me?

My hands clenched into fists, nails biting into my palms until I felt the sting of broken skin. A stubborn resolve rose within me, burning through the despair.

If Nico didn't love me, there was no reason to keep drowning in this blood-bound union.

He would never dissolve our marriage. In our world, such things simply weren't done. A blood oath was sacred, unbreakablethe foundation upon which empires were built and destroyed. No Volpe had ever broken a marriage bond. The shame would be unthinkable.

But what about me?

What about a Mancini woman who had already sacrificed everything?

Fine.

I would break the oath myself. I would file for dissolution of the blood bondan almost unheard-of act of defianceand set him free to be with his precious cure.

Once I made up my mind, something shifted inside me. The weight that had pressed against my chest for months lifted, just slightly. Three years ago, I had given up my place in the Family's underground medical network for him. I had been one of the most promising young surgeons in our world, trained to patch up soldiers and capos, to perform operations that could never see the light of legitimate hospitals.

I had walked away from all of it. For him.

Maybe it wasn't too late to reclaim that dream. The Genovese Family operated a medical school front in Washington territory. Perhaps they would take me in.

An hour later, I slipped out of the compound through the servants' entrance, nodding to the night guards who knew better than to question the Young Don's wife. I drove myself to the plaza downtowna Volpe-owned shopping district that never truly closedto buy myself something new.

Something for the woman I was about to become.

"Miss, this is the last one in stock. Would you like to purchase it?"

I nodded and handed the saleswoman my card. The dress was simple but elegantblack silk that whispered of new beginnings and quiet funerals.

"I'm so sorry," the woman said, her smile faltering, "but another customer is offering to pay extra for this piece. Would you consider letting it go?"

I followed her gaze across the boutique's marble floor.

A striking woman in red-soled heels was chatting animatedly with a man near the window display. Her laughter was bright and practiced, her hand resting possessively on his arm.

I stood and took two steps forwardthen locked eyes with him.

Nico.

The air between us turned to ice. The ambient music faded to static.

Which meant the woman had to be Massima.

She was beautiful, I realized with a hollow ache. Dark hair cascading over bare shoulders, lips painted the color of arterial blood, a body that curved in all the places men noticed. She looked like a woman who had never been told no in her life.

Nico's expression hardened into granite. His lips parted, a muscle jumping in his jaw, but no sound emerged. He stared at me blankly for a long moment, then reached into his jacket and withdrew his phone, tapping the screen with his index finger.

I knew that gesture all too well. It was our method of communicationthe only bridge across the chasm of his silence.

My phone buzzed.

"What are you doing here?"

Another buzz.

"Are you following me?"

A third.

"Go home."

Three messages in rapid succession, each one a small death. My last shred of hope crumbled to ash.

Massima wrapped herself around Nico's arm like a serpent, her smile sweet as poisoned honey. "Nico, who's this? A friend?"

She swayed against him, pouting prettily. "Can you ask her to let me have this dress? I really want it."

And then

Nico smiled.

The expression transformed his face, softened the hard edges, warmed the ice in his eyes. He patted her hand reassuringly, didn't even glance in my direction, and handed his black card to the waiting saleswoman.

"She's a friend."

The words hit me like a blade of Sicilian steel, driven straight between my ribs. Goosebumps erupted across my skin. My knees nearly buckled.

A friend.

So that's what three years amounted to. Three years of devotion, of sacrifice, of loving a man who couldn'twouldn'tlove me back. One word: friend.

The boutique's crystal chandeliers flickered overhead, the lights crackling with an electrical fault that no one had bothered to fix. I looked up instinctively

Just as a fixture broke loose from the ceiling.

A deafening crash.

Searing pain exploded across my back like white-hot fire, driving the breath from my lungs. Glass and metal rained down around me. I hit the marble floor hard, and something warm and wet began to spread beneath my body.

My trembling fingers came away slick with blood. My blood.

The store erupted into chaos. Screams pierced the air. Phone calls blurred into a single ringing in my ears. Someone was crying. Someone was shouting for help.

But when I lifted my gaze through the haze of agony, all I saw was Nico scooping Massima into his arms, his dark eyes wild with panic as he scanned the crowd.

"Call an ambulance! Now!"

I had never seen him so frantic. I had never heard his voice carry such raw terror.

And it wasn't for me.

"Sir, pleasethis woman needs to go first."

The paramedic's voice cut through the chaos as they carefully lifted my half-conscious body onto a stretcher. Blood had soaked through my dress, pooling on the white sheets beneath me. The world swam in and out of focus.

"The next ambulance is on its way, but her injuries are critical. We need to move now."

But Nico blocked their path, his face contorted with fury, his tall frame an immovable wall.

"Save her!"

A violent shove. The stretcher tilted. I tumbled off and hit the marble floor again, the impact jolting me back to agonizing consciousness. Fresh pain lanced through my spine.

I watched, helpless and bleeding, as he gentlyso gentlyplaced Massima onto the stretcher in my place. His hands cradled her like she was made of spun glass.

"Sir, she only has a sprained wristit's not serious!"

"You're misusing emergency resources! This woman is dying!"

"Massima's hands are important!" Nico's voice thundered through the boutique, silencing everyone. "She's a doctor!"

I stared in disbelief.

That was the longest sentence he'd spoken in two years.

And not a single word was about me.

He pushed through the crowd of onlookers and climbed into the ambulance without looking back, without a single glance at the woman who had given him everything.

I slumped against a nearby display rack, gasping for air. Every breath tugged at the wound on my back, sharpening the agony into something almost unbearable. Blood continued to seep through my fingers where I pressed them against the gash.

I couldn't tell which hurt moremy body or my heart.

Hadn't I given up my own place in the Family's medical network for him? Hadn't I walked away from the operating table, from the work that had given my life meaning, because he needed a wife who would be present, devoted, available?

How was she more important?

What did that make me?

My lips twitched into something that might have been a smileor a grimace of pure, crystallized grief.

So that's all I was. A friend.

Then the pain dragged me under, and the world dissolved into merciful darkness.

The first thing I did when consciousness dragged me from the morphine haze was reach for my phone.

I want out of this blood oath.

The moment my thumb pressed send, the heavy oak door swung inwardand there he stood.

Nico Volpe moved through the sterile hospital room like a shadow given form, two black gift boxes balanced in his hands. The same designer label I'd lingered over at the plaza that morning, back when I still believed small gestures might mean something. He set them on the bedside cabinet without ceremony, then lowered himself into the leather chair beside my bed with the measured grace of a man who had learned to make every movement deliberate, every action a statement of control.

He withdrew his phone from the inner pocket of his charcoal suit. I watched his dark eyes scan the screenmy message, glowing there like an accusation.

His expression betrayed nothing. Not surprise. Not anger. Not even the flicker of acknowledgment that I had just asked to dissolve what the Families considered sacred.

The silence pressed against my chest like a physical weight. The only sounds were the distant murmur of the clinic's staff and the soft rhythm of machines monitoring my vitals.

Then my phone chimed.

You admired this label. I selected two pieces that would complement you.

Another chime.

When you're released, I'll have their people come to the compound. Buy out the entire collection if it pleases you.

And another.

Massima is a surgeon. Her hands are essential to her standing in the Family's operations. That's why I reacted as I did. Don't hold anger.

I stared at the screen, message after message materializing like ghosts. Tears blurred my vision until the words swam together, meaningless.

Finally, something inside me cracked.

"You can speak to her." My voice emerged raw, scraped hollow. "But not to me? We're sitting three feet apart, and you're still hiding behind a screen?"

I lifted my head, letting him see the tears cutting tracks down my cheeks. Letting him see exactly what his silence had cost.

"Is this deliberate? Is this how you punish mewith this wall of nothing?"

His face remained as still as carved marble. Those dark Volpe eyes, so legendary in their coldness, watched me without a tremor of emotion.

The silence stretched between us like a blade.

Then his head bowed, and his thumbs moved across the screen once more.

I'm sorry. I have selective mutism.

He reached into his jacket and produced a document, thick with legal seals, and gestured for me to sign.

I looked down. A property deed. The safe house we had called home for three yearsthe elegant brownstone in Volpe territory where I had built a life around his absences and his silences.

This is your compensation.

A sharp ringtone shattered the moment. I watched his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly as he lifted the phone to his ear.

The device had excellent sound insulation. I couldn't hear the voice on the other end.

But then he spoke.

"I'm on my way."

Two words. Spoken aloud. For her.

Massima.

I already knew.

I didn't hesitate. My fingers found my phone, navigating to the court filing system with the precision of someone who had rehearsed this moment in the darkest hours of too many sleepless nights.

Petition for dissolution of blood-bound marriage. Personal information for both parties. Marriage certificate. Under "proof of separation," I uploaded the property transfer documentevidence that the Young Don of the Volpe Family was already dividing our assets. I selected "decline mediation."

When I pressed submit, something in my chest finally loosened. A knot I hadn't realized I'd been carrying for three years.

Thirty days. The countdown to freedom had begun.

A week passed before his next message arrived.

Property transfer center. 3 PM. Finalizing the deed.

Seven days of silence. No texts. No calls. No visits to the Family's private clinic where I lay recovering from what his neglect had cost me.

I was learning to exist in the emptiness he had always offered.

That afternoon, I arrived at three-thirty.

He was already waiting in the lobby of the transfer office, a legitimate front that the Families used for moving assets between names. The afternoon light caught the sharp angles of his face, illuminating the dark circles beneath his eyes that even his perfect composure couldn't hide.

Nico Volpe despised tardiness. Every soldier in his crew knew it. Every associate who had ever kept him waiting had learned to regret it.

But there wasn't a trace of impatience on his face. Not today.

The moment I appeared, a woman from the VIP counter approached with practiced deference.

"Mrs. Volpe, everything has been prepared."

He'd arranged flowers. A bouquet of white lilies sat on the polished tableelegant, expensive, the kind of gesture that might have meant something once. Beside it rested a small velvet box. Jewelry, no doubt. Another offering laid at the altar of his guilt.

The attendant moved to pull out my chair, but Nico stopped her with a subtle gesture of his hand. He would do it himself.

I blinked, caught off guard by this unexpected courtesy.

"You really don't have to do all this."

A faint smile touched his lipsso rare, so carefully rationed. He shook his head slowly.

It seemed to take tremendous effort, but he managed two words.

"It's fine."

Such unusual gentleness. Such unprecedented communication.

The paperwork was completed with efficient precision. Signatures exchanged. Seals pressed. The safe house was now mine alonea parting gift from the heir apparent of the Volpe Syndicate.

His final message appeared on my screen as the attendant gathered the documents.

Head back to the compound first. I have business that will run late.

A strange feeling stirred in my chest, building and building until it pressed against my ribs. Hope, perhaps. Or its ghost.

I walked out the glass doors and hailed a car from the Family's fleet. Only when I reached for my wallet did I realize I'd left my handbag inside.

I turned back.

Through the lobby windows, I could see him still standing there.

In his arms was a bouquet of rosesblood red, twice the size of the lilies he'd offered me.

Massima Gallo walked through the entrance, her designer heels clicking against the marble like a victory march. He moved toward her immediately, drawn like iron to a magnet.

They embraced.

He stroked her hair, tender and familiar, the gesture of a man reuniting with something precious. Something chosen.

"Mr. Volpe, for your new property acquisition, please follow me this way."

The attendant's voice carried across the lobby, professional and accommodating.

"You mentioned wanting an estate? Now that the brownstone has been transferred out of your name, you meet the purchase requirements again."

A pause. Then, with poisoned sweetness: "Mrs. Volpe, do watch your step."

Massima rested her head against his shoulder, her smile visible even from where I stood frozen.

The two of them walked into the private consultation room together, faces glowing with the warmth he had never once shown me.

It was the middle of July. The summer heat pressed against the windows like a living thing.

But I had never felt so cold.

Cold enough that my legs refused to hold me.

Cold enough that sweat beaded on my back and forehead despite the chill spreading through my veins.

So that was it.

The one being discardedthe one who had always been disposablehad been me all along.

"Signora Volpe, your husband, Don Nico Volpe, has not responded to any summons regarding this dissolution. We reached his linethe connection held, but there was only silence. Per the protocols of this court, his silence will be recorded as default consent to the breaking of your blood-bound union."

"Therefore, your petition has been processed. You have thirty days from the date of filing to withdraw your claim. Should you choose not to withdraw, the marriage will be dissolved, and the blood oath severed."

The court clerk's voice was flat, devoid of inflectiona man who had witnessed too many broken bonds to feel anything anymore. Perhaps among the countless cases that crossed his desk, this was merely the simplest. A woman walking away from one of the most powerful Families on the Eastern Seaboard. Just another file.

I drew a slow breath. My hands trembled against the phone, but I forced my voice steady.

"Understood."

I ended the call and hailed a car back to the property.

I stood at the entrance of the penthouse, letting my gaze drift across the space that had once belonged to usthe Italian marble floors, the antique furniture imported from Sicily, the grandfather clock that had witnessed three generations of Volpe men. All of it, cold now. Empty.

Then I began packing his things.

I wasn't planning to leave.

I was going to purge every trace of Nico Volpe from these walls.

"Signora Volpe, a delivery for you."

A knock at the door. A courier in a dark suitone of the Family's men, no doubt.

He extended an envelope, cream-colored, expensive.

"I'm not Signora Volpe anymore."

I took the card and heard the words leave my mouth, foreign and final.

The courier froze, uncertainty flickering across his features before he offered an awkward nod and retreated.

I tore open the envelope.

Inside was a handwritten card.

The script was unmistakably Nico'selegant, precise, the penmanship of a man raised to sign death warrants and love letters with equal care.

I opened it.

The next second, his voice floated out from the card, recorded and intimate.

"I miss you, I like you, I love you..."

Before I could process the words, a hand snatched the card from my grip.

I stumbled backward, nearly losing my footing on the marble.

I looked up.

Nico stood there, his face dark as a gathering stormjaw tight, eyes burning with something between fury and possession. He wore his usual black, impeccably tailored, the signet ring of the Volpe heir glinting on his finger.

My phone screen illuminated. A message from him.

Don't touch my things.

Before I could speak a single word, he had already turned and descended the stairs, the card clutched in his fist like a secret he refused to share.

"Nico, you've gone too far!"

Rage erupted through mehot, blinding, unstoppable. I chased after him, my footsteps echoing through the stairwell like gunshots.

"I didn't go through your thingswhat gives you the right to disrespect me like this!"

"I don't care what you and your precious Massima have going on, but you have no right to humiliate me!"

A piercing screech shattered the air.

Tires shrieking against asphalt. The violent protest of an emergency brake.

A searing pain exploded through my side.

I didn't see anythingjust felt the impact, the brutal force of metal meeting flesh.

My body was thrown.

A heavy, sickening thud as I hit the ground.

I struggled to rise, my vision swimming, the taste of copper flooding my mouth.

A face loomed over meflawless makeup, designer sunglasses perched on a perfect nose. Massima Gallo. The woman who had clawed her way back from European exile, who had stolen my research, my standing, my husband's attention.

A red stiletto heel came down on my right hand.

Ground down.

Hard.

"Ahh!"

The scream tore from my throat in ragged, animal bursts. Bone ground against pavement. Tendons screamed. The world narrowed to a single point of white-hot agony.

Through the haze of pain, I saw Nico running toward ushis face transformed, panic cracking through his usual mask of ice.

He looked nothing like the cold, distant man from moments ago.

He grabbed Massima's hand, anxious, his eyes scanning her body with desperate attention, checking every inch of her for harm.

Only after confirming she was untouched did he release a heavy breath of relief.

His shoulders sagged. His grip on her hand gentled.

Until the moment darkness claimed me, he never once looked at me.

When I woke again, I was in the Family medical facilitythe private clinic the Volpes maintained for their own. The walls were pristine white, the equipment state-of-the-art, but the air carried the unmistakable chill of a place where loyalty determined the quality of your care.

"Signorina Mancini, your privileges at the Volpe clinic have been revoked. I'm afraid you'll need to be transferred to a standard facility."

The nurse's voice was carefully neutral, but I caught the flicker of pity in her eyes.

"I'm sorrywe've just confirmed there are no private rooms available at the public hospital either. You may have to wait in the corridor for your surgery."

She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice dropped.

"Also, the injury to your right hand is severe. You need surgery immediately, or you may lose the ability to perform fine motor tasks permanently."

Those words hit me like ice water poured directly into my veins.

My right hand.

Unable to perform fine motor tasks.

I had trained for years in the Family's underground medical network. I had dreamed of becoming a surgeonof saving lives, of proving my worth beyond the alliance marriage that had defined my existence.

"Nico... where's Nico..."

"Get... my phone..."

I tried to sit up, fighting through the waves of nausea and pain.

I had to call him.

The call connected.

A robotic female voice answered.

The number you have dialed is powered off.

A broken sound escaped my throatsomething between a sob and a laugh.

I hurled my phone across the room.

It hit the wall with a sharp crack, the screen shattering like my last hope.

My right hand screamed with agonysharp, relentless, like a thousand needles piercing flesh and bone.

"Signorina Mancini, we located Don Nico. He's with Signorina Gallo in the private counseling suite. Apparently she was shaken by the incident." The nurse hesitated. "The Young Don left strict instructions that no one is to disturb them."

I covered my eyes with my left hand.

Blood and tears mingled together, soaking through the sleeve of my ruined dress.

I clenched my teeth, the words grinding out of me, low and raw as a wound.

"I hate you..."

"I hate you so much, Nico Volpe."

I spent the night in the corridor like a wounded animal left to die in the shadows, my fingers wrapped around the pain pump as though it were the only thing tethering me to this world. The hours crawled past in a haze of fluorescent lights and distant footstepssoldiers walking their rounds, nurses who averted their eyes when they passed the Young Don's discarded wife.

That night, body and soul alike were drowning in agony.

Pain so intense it circled back to numbness, a mercy I hadn't earned.

"I'm sorry, Signora Volpe." Dottore Salvatore Greco's voice was careful, measuredthe tone of a man who understood exactly whose wife sat before him, and exactly how little that title meant anymore. "Due to the comminuted fracture in your right hand, combined with the surgical delay, some of the muscle tissue has already necrosed. I'm afraid you won't be able to lift heavy objects in the future."

He offered an awkward smile, the kind men give when they're delivering a death sentence wrapped in clinical language.

"I know you trained in the Family's medical network yourself, so... I'm afraid you'll never be able to hold a scalpel again."

The words hung in the sterile air like smoke after a gunshot.

"Perhaps you could speak with the Young Don? The Volpe Family has always controlled the finest medical operations on the Eastern Seaboard. If you sought treatment through their European contacts, there might still be a chance."

I shook my head.

I looked down at my right hand, swathed in white bandages like a burial shroud.

I couldn't even bend my fingers.

Once, these hands had been my ticket out. My value. The only thing that made Isabella Mancini more than just a pawn in an alliance marriage. Now they were nothing but dead weight wrapped in gauze.

"Could you help me get a new phone? I need to contact"

The authorities, I almost said. But what law existed for women like me? What cop would take a statement against the Volpe Syndicate?

Before I could finish, the door slammed open with a bang that echoed off the walls like a warning shot.

Nico had arrived.

He filled the doorway the way he filled every roomwith the cold, suffocating presence of a man born to command. His expression was taut and grim, jaw set like marble, eyes the color of a winter storm. But when he saw mecovered in bandages, IV drip threading into my arm, face hollow from a night of unmedicated hellhe paused.

Something flickered across his features.

Surprise, perhaps.

Or a slight softening, so brief I might have imagined it.

His lips parted.

Still, no words came.

Of course not. The selective mutism that had plagued him since Massima's departure three years ago hadn't lifted for his wife. It never had. I was not the woman who held the key to his voice.

He grabbed a notepad and pen from the bedside tablethe same way he'd communicated with me throughout our entire blood-bound unionand scrawled a few lines in his sharp, elegant hand.

"I didn't know you were hurt this badly last night. I'll contact specialists through our European network for your hand."

I let out a cold laugh.

The sound scraped against my throat like broken glass.

"No need." My voice was steady, even as something inside me crumbled. "I'll fix my own hand myself."

His brow furrowed slightlya crack in the mask. Clearly displeased with my response. The Young Don of the Volpe Family was not accustomed to refusal.

I wanted to ask about the dissolution.

About the blood oath I'd shattered when I signed those papers.

But then I thought better of it. What was the point? He'd made his choice the moment he left me bleeding on that floor.

He pulled a checkbook from inside his tailored suit jacketBrioni, I noted distantly, the kind of fabric that cost more than most soldiers earned in a monthwrote down a figure, and placed it on the table between us.

"This is compensation. I hope you won't blame Massima."

The moment I saw her name, my whole body began to tremble uncontrollably.

Massima.

Massima.

The woman who had stolen my research. Who had clawed her way back into Volpe favor through seduction and lies. Who had pushed me down those stairs and watched me fall without a flicker of remorse in her eyes.

And he wanted me to forgive her.

"Get out!"

The words tore from my throat like a scream.

"I don't ever want to see you again, Nico!"

"Massima? I'm going to report her to the authoritiesI don't need your blood money!"

I snatched up the check, tore it in half with my one good hand, and hurled the pieces at him. They fluttered to the ground like dead leaves.

He froze.

As if he'd never seen me lose my temper like this before.

And perhaps he hadn't. For three years, I had been the perfect blood-bound wife. Quiet. Devoted. Invisible. I had swallowed every slight, every absence, every night spent alone in our bed while he stared at photographs of another woman.

No more.

He lowered his head and wrote another line.

"I won't let you hurt Massima."

Those words drove into my heart like a blade.

One I couldn't pull out no matter how I tried.

He turned and left without looking back. The door clicked shut behind him with a sound like a coffin closing.

The room was silent except for my trembling.

I stared at the ceilingwater-stained, institutional, nothing like the gilded ceilings of the Volpe compoundand murmured to myself.

"Ten more days... Ten days, and we're done for good."

Ten days until the dissolution was finalized.

Ten days until I was free of the Volpe name.

If I survived that long.

Three days later.

"Signora Volpe, these flowers are from the Young Don."

The nurse's voice was carefully neutral, but I caught the pity in her eyes. Everyone in this Family-controlled clinic knew the truth. Everyone had heard the whispers.

He'd been sending flowers for three days straight.

Red roses, dozens of them, delivered with mechanical precision every morning.

I didn't look at them. Just gave a flat acknowledgment.

Leaning on my crutchmy leg still weak from the fall, my hand still uselessI gathered my few belongings and prepared to check out. A change of clothes. My phone, retrieved by a sympathetic nurse. The divorce papers, tucked into my bag like a loaded weapon.

The moment I pushed open the door, I froze.

The entire corridor was engulfed in flowers.

Roses everywhereclimbing the walls, spilling from vases, carpeting the floor in a sea of crimson. Identical to the ones delivered these past few days. The scent was overwhelming, cloying, almost funereal.

My heart skipped a beat.

How did he know I was being discharged today?

Had he been watching?

For one desperate, foolish moment, hope flickered in my chest like a dying candle. Perhaps he did care. Perhaps this was his way of apologizing, of showing me that I mattered

But the very next second, voices drifted from a neighboring roomand shattered every last illusion.

"The Young Don of the Volpe Family is so devoted." A nurse's voice, hushed with awe. "To save Signorina Gallo from any awkwardness after her return from Europe, he sent flowers to every room in the clinic and completely redecorated this entire floor for her."

"Must cost tens of thousands a day. The Volpe Family really does romance differently."

"Shh, keep it downthe Young Don's blood-bound wife is recovering here too."

I braced myself against the wall, my face drained of color.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips.

Of course.

The flowers had never been for me.

They were for her. For Massima. To spare her the embarrassment of being seen as the other woman while his wife lay broken in the same building.

Every rose was a declaration.

Every petal was a knife.

Excited murmurs rose from downstairs, echoing through the marble lobby like the roar of a crowd at a blood sport.

I leaned over the railing instinctively to look.

The lobby on the first floor had been transformed into a sea of crimson roses. Thousands of them, arranged with the precision of a military operation. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light over the display, and soldiers in dark suits lined the walls like an honor guard.

Nico and Massima stood in the center.

He was down on one knee.

The Young Don of the Volpe Crime Familyheir to an empire built on blood and silencekneeling before the woman who had destroyed me.

His lips moved.

And then

He spoke.

"Massima, will you stay with me forever?"

The most clichd line in existence.

Yet he delivered it so naturally.

So effortlessly.

His voice.

I hadn't heard his voice in three years. Not once. Not a single word spoken aloud in my presence. The selective mutism had been absolute, unbreakablea curse that had defined our entire marriage.

But for her?

For her, he could speak.

Massima's cheeks flushed as she accepted the ring box. Diamonds glittered against black velveta ring that probably cost more than my family's entire holdings.

Everyone around them burst into applause. Soldiers, associates, bought doctorsall 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 neverneverby 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 precincta 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 abandonmentstale, 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.

He stood in the threshold, his dark eyes sweeping over the half-packed boxes, the neat stacks of his possessions. His expression hardened into something cold and unreadablethe mask of the Young Don, the face he wore for enemies and strangers.

He seemed to sense something different in me. Something shifted. But he couldn't place what had changed.

He didn't pause to ask.

He walked straight past me toward the bedroom, his footsteps deliberate against the obsidian tile.

The sounds that followed were violentdrawers wrenched open, cabinet doors slamming, the rustle of fabric being torn aside.

Then he stormed back out, tearing through the clothes and personal effects I had already folded with care. His hands moved with desperate fury, scattering everything across the floor.

"What are you doing?"

I stepped forward.

But his arm shot out like a blade, catching me across the chest. The force sent me sprawling to the ground.

"Where's the voice recorder?"

His voice.

Dio mio, his voice.

How long had it been since he'd spoken to me directly? How many months of silence, of cold shoulders, of messages typed on screens because he couldn'tor wouldn'tspare me the sound of his words?

"What voice recorder? I didn't take anything."

I looked down at my right hand. Crimson was seeping through the fresh bandages again, blooming like roses against white linen.

He resumed his frantic search, overturning boxes, ripping through garment bags.

I looked up at him.

I had never seen Nico Volpe like this.

Drenched in sweat, his tailored shirt clinging to his chest. His silk tie yanked loose, hanging like a noose around his throat. His cashmere coatworth more than most men earned in a monthwas covered in dust and debris.

Disheveled.

Desperate.

Unraveling.

"Where is the voice recorder!"

He stopped his destruction and turned on me, towering over my crumpled form like a dark angel of judgment.

"I told you I haven't seen it!"

I had never been this defiant. Never raised my voice to the heir of the Volpe bloodline.

I braced my left hand against the cold floor and struggled to my feet, forcing myself to meet his gaze. To stand before him as something other than the dutiful wife, the silent shadow, the woman who had sacrificed everything and received nothing in return.

He seemed lost. Unmoored from the iron control that defined him.

Anger churned beneath the surface of his featuresa storm building behind those dark eyes.

His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

Thencrash.

His fist slammed into the glass sliding door.

Shards exploded across the floor like scattered diamonds, catching the dim light as they fell.

"My voice recorder. Where is it."

He closed the distance between us, his voice strained and unraveling at the edges. The words came out rough, brokennothing like the smooth commands of a man born to lead.

Blood dripped from his right hand, one drop at a time, spattering against the marble like a metronome counting down to something terrible.

I had never seen him this unhinged. This human.

I summoned every ounce of courage left in my battered body and shoved him away.

Dragging my injured leg behind me, I tried to escape through the front door. Tried to flee this mausoleum of a marriage, this beautiful prison I had decorated with my own hands.

That's when it happened.

"I'm Nico Volpe. I'm eighteen years old. I want to confess my feelings to Massima."

The voice burst into the silence like a gunshot.

Young. Earnest. Full of hope.

A voice I had never heardbecause by the time I entered his life, he had already stopped speaking.

"Massima, today marks our second anniversary. I hope we'll always be together."

"Massima, we've been together for three years now. My wish this year is still the sameto be with you forever."

"Massima... why did you leave?"

"Massima, I've decided to get married."

Something clattered to the ground behind me.

A worn voice recorderthe kind from another era, before digital files and cloud storagerolled out from a corner where it must have been dislodged during his frantic search.

Its red light blinked on and off like a dying heartbeat.

Playing its contents for the empty room.

They were love letters. Confessions he had recorded for her, starting from when he was barely more than a boy. Year after year of devotion, captured in magnetic tape. A shrine to the woman who had abandoned him.

"Goodbye, Massima. I hope I'll see you again."

"Goodbye."

The recorder seemed to be broken. Damaged, perhaps, from years of obsessive handling.

It kept repeating those two words.

Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.

He lunged forward and snatched it up, cradling it against his chest like a wounded animal.

His fingers fumbled desperately at the buttons, trying to silence it.

It wouldn't stop.

My footsteps halted at the threshold.

I turned slowly.

Leaned against the mahogany shoe cabinet by the doora piece I had selected myself, back when I still believed this house could become a home.

Tears fell, one drop at a time, tracing hot paths down my cheeks.

"Nico."

I said his name.

The name I had whispered in the dark when he lay beside me but a thousand miles away. The name I had written on medical forms and emergency contacts. The name that had become synonymous with my own slow destruction.

"You never loved me. Why did you marry me?"

His throat worked visibly.

As if he wanted to say something. As if, for once, he might break his silence and offer me the truth.

But in the end, he stayed mute.

Omertthe code of silence. He had kept it with me more faithfully than any oath sworn to the Family.

My phone screen lit up in my pocket.

A message from him.

Let me explain, Isabella.

I closed my eyes.

Forced myself to stay calm.

Pushed down the bitterness rising in my chest like bile, like blood, like all the words I had swallowed for three years of this blood-bound union.

"Leave."

My voice came out steady. Cold. The voice of a woman who had finally found the edge of her endurance and stepped over it.

"Take all your things and get out of my house."

His lips pressed into a thin line.

His hand gripped the recorderstill repeating goodbye, goodbye, goodbyeas if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

He walked past me without another word.

The door closed behind him with a soft click that echoed like a death knell.

My phone screen lit up one last time.

I'm sorry.

In the days that followed, I never saw Nico again.

But before I could disappear from Volpe territory for good, I had to return to the Family clinic to have my bandages changed.

The medical facility occupied the top three floors of a building the syndicate owned outrighta place where bullet wounds were treated without questions and loyalty bought silence more effectively than any bribe. I had spent enough hours in these sterile corridors to know every shadow, every whispered conversation that died the moment a door opened.

As I walked into the lobby, I looked up out of habit.

The wall of honored physicians on the first floor had been updated.

Massima Gallo's profile now hung among the other specialistsher photograph positioned beneath soft lighting that made her look almost angelic. The daughter of disgraced associates, clawed back into favor through means I understood all too well.

I looked at it for a moment longer than I should have.

Then I saw her list of publications, and my blood turned to ice water in my veins.

That thesis.

My undergraduate graduation thesis. The research I had poured eighteen months of sleepless nights into, the work that should have secured my place in the Family's legitimate medical operations.

I checked the author's name and the date again and again, my injured hand trembling at my side.

The timing matched almost exactly with my graduation year.

"Miss Mancini, hello."

A woman's voice pulled me out of my shocksmooth as silk wrapped around a blade.

I turned.

Massima.

She stood in the corridor like she owned it, her white coat pristine against the marble floors, her dark waves styled to perfection. Everything about her screamed legitimate, but I knew better. I knew what she was.

"Care for a chat?"

She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head toward the nearby loungea private room where the Family conducted conversations that required discretion.

I didn't refuse.

Some things needed to be said face to face. Some truths demanded witnesses, even if those witnesses were only the ghosts of what I used to be.

Once we sat down in the leather chairs, I studied her.

Flawless, really.

Her white coat was immaculate, not a single crease to suggest she'd ever done real work. Her waves were styled with the kind of precision that required hours and moneyboth of which Nico had clearly provided.

She smiled.

"That day when the court called about the dissolution of your blood-bound union, Nico didn't answer. I did."

She blinked, her expression almost innocentthe kind of innocence that had been rehearsed in mirrors.

"I had no idea that staying silent meant consenting to the divorce." She pressed a manicured hand to her chest. "You won't blame me for that, will you, Miss Mancini?"

I was quiet for a few seconds.

The weight of what she'd donewhat she'd stolenpressed against my chest like a stone. But I had learned, in three years of marriage to a man made of silence and ice, how to wear a mask.

Then I shook my head.

"No. I wanted out. A clean break is better for me."

She didn't seem to care about my answer. She had already moved on to her next performance.

"Also, the car accident really was just thatan accident." Her voice dropped to something approximating remorse. "I apologized to Nico, and he promised me there wouldn't be any consequences. I assume... you won't hold it against me either?"

I looked at her steadily.

Said nothing.

Consequences. In this world, that word meant something very specific. It meant broken bones, missing fingers, shallow graves in the pine barrens. That Nico had promised her immunity meant he valued her more than the blood oath he had sworn to me.

There were many things I couldn't handle on my own right now. My ruined hand. My stolen research. My shattered future.

That Nico would protect her was no surprise.

He had always protected her.

"You saw that thesis, didn't you?"

Her tone dropped, and something sharp glinted in her eyessatisfaction, perhaps. Or triumph.

"Yes, it's exactly what you're thinking." She leaned forward slightly. "Nico knew I was doing research abroad and needed publications to restore my family's standing. He gave it to me himself."

My fingertips curled tight without my permission, nails biting into my palms.

She went on, her voice taking on a practiced softness.

"These past three years, thank you for taking care of Nico. I was conducting research in the European territories and couldn't always be with him. I only found out later that my sudden departure triggered his selective mutism."

She made a show of distress, pressing her fingertips to her forehead like a woman in a paintingbeautiful, tragic, false.

Then she smiled again.

"But I've only been back a short while, and he's already improved so much. He speaks to me, you know. Actual words. Full sentences, sometimes."

The words landed like blows to my chest.

I lowered my gaze.

My hand stirred the coffee the nurse had brought me, the motion mechanical. The liquid was black as ink, bitter as the truth I was finally swallowing.

"Did you come here to brag about how much he loves you?"

I set down the spoon and tilted my head back, draining the bitter black coffee in one go. It burned going down, but I welcomed the pain. It reminded me I could still feel something.

"Don't bother."

"His past, his present, his futureI don't follow any of it anymore. I don't care."

"I don't want a man who wouldn't speak to me."

I met her eyes, and for one moment, I let her see the steel beneath my surfacethe steel that three years of silence and neglect had forged.

"I hope you enjoy my leftovers."

I stood and walked toward the payment counter, my heels clicking against the marble with a finality that felt like freedom.

"Miss Mancini!"

She shot up and grabbed my right hand from behind.

My right handthe one that had been crushed in the accident she had caused. The one that would never hold a scalpel again.

Her grip sent pain lancing through me so sharp I nearly lost my footing. White spots danced across my vision.

I wrenched free.

Thud.

She stumbled back into the railing, her performance of fragility suddenly very real.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a familiar figure.

Nico.

He emerged from the shadows of the corridor like a spectertall, dark-suited, his face carved from the same cold marble as the floors beneath our feet. He rushed over and steadied Massima, his hands gentle on her arms in a way they had never been gentle with me.

"Nico, it's fine, really." Her voice was soft as velvet. "I'm not that fragileI just lost my balance."

She pressed herself against him, and I watched his expression shift. The ice in his eyes thawed, just slightly, just for her.

I paused.

I didn't want to deal with this. I kept walking.

The next second

Crack.

A slap struck my face, hard.

The sound echoed through the clinic corridor like a gunshot.

Patients and staff turned to staresoldiers, associates, made men who had seen violence that would haunt ordinary people's nightmares. And yet they stared at this, at the Young Don striking his blood-bound wife in public.

I pressed my hand to my right cheek.

It burned.

He seemed to freeze for a moment, his hand still raised. He looked at his own palm as if he didn't recognize it.

Then his expression went cold again, colder than before, as if the brief flash of humanity had been a mistake he needed to correct.

"Apologize."

Those two words were meant for me.

I almost laughed.

Every time he spoke. Every time he actually said something to mebroke his precious silence to address me directly.

It was always about Massima.

What did she have that I didn't? What magic did she possess that could unlock his voice, his tenderness, his humanity?

But it didn't matter anymore.

None of it mattered.

"Nico! How could you hit Miss Mancini!"

Massima grabbed his arm, her eyes wide with manufactured horror.

"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 againfor 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 usfutures 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 lifeor 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 papersthe 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 caf 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 caf was one of those places that existed in the liminal space between the Family's legitimate fronts and their darker dealingsexpensive 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.

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 rangan 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 neutralthe 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 Englanda 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 handmy good handwhile 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 caf 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, calculatedthe 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 paintingtwo 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.

And he had never once looked at me the way he was looking at her now.

I forced myself to look away. The bile rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down. Mancini women did not break in public.

"Signorina Mancini? Are you still there?"

Marco was still talking. Something about flight arrangements. Security details. The Genovese territory protocols.

I hung up.

Paid the bill with cashuntraceable, the way I'd been taught. Grabbed my luggage. Walked out of the caf with my spine straight and my face composed.

Then I crossed the street.

My heels clicked against the cobblestones with deliberate precision. Each step carried me closer to the table where my husbandmy former husbandsat with the woman who had stolen my research, my reputation, and apparently, whatever remained of his capacity for human warmth.

I stopped directly in front of them.

The dissolution papers I had been clutching the entire wayI slammed them down on the table.

Hard.

The impact sent Massima's fresh-squeezed juice sloshing over the rim of its crystal glass. Nico's espresso followed, dark liquid spreading across the white linen like a bloodstain.

The coffee splashed onto Massima's cream-colored dressa designer piece, no doubt purchased with Volpe money.

She gasped. Theatrical. Wounded.

The next second, Nico's hand shot out and seized my right wrist.

My damaged wrist.

The pain was immediate and blinding, radiating up through the network of poorly-healed bones and severed tendons. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper.

I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

His dark eyes met mine. Cold. Assessing. The same expression he wore when conducting Family businesswhen deciding whether a man would live or die based on his usefulness to the Volpe empire.

He didn't glance at the papers.

Didn't acknowledge what they represented.

Three years of marriage. A blood oath sworn before God and the Commission. An alliance between two Families that had cost my father political capital and my mother sleepless nights.

All of it reduced to a stack of legal documents soaking in spilled espresso.

A few seconds of silence stretched between us.

Then, as if deciding that confronting me wasn't worth the effortas if I wasn't worth the efforthe released my wrist.

He walked around to Massima's side of the table.

Pulled napkins from the silver dispenser.

Carefully, gently, dabbed at the stains spreading across her skirt. His movements were solicitous. Protective. The movements of a man tending to something precious.

"Are you alright, Massima?" His voice was soft. Concerned. Human.

I stood there for a moment longer.

The afternoon sun was warm on my face, but I felt nothing but cold.

I didn't say another word.

I turned, hailed a black car from the line of Family-approved drivers waiting near the Social Club, and directed him to take me to the airport.

The announcement echoed through the private terminal, crackling through speakers that had seen better decades.

"Passengers traveling to America, please proceed to Gate T1 for check-in."

My phone buzzed one final time.

Another message from him.

Isabella. I think you owe Massima an apology.

I stared at the screen.

Three years.

Three years of silence. Of neglect. Of watching him pour every ounce of devotion he possessed into the memory of a woman who had abandoned himwhile I stood beside him, invisible, bleeding out slowly from wounds he refused to acknowledge.

And now, at the end of everything, his final words to me were a demand that I apologize to her.

I didn't hesitate.

Blocked. Deleted.

I handed my identification documents to the security officerpassport, visa papers, the dissolution decree that marked the official end of my time as a Volpe.

The woman glanced at my information. Looked up. Her eyes flickered to the date on the decree.

"Dissolved today?"

I checked my luggage, straightened my coat, and met her gaze with a small, sharp smile.

"Yes. The blood oath is broken."

The air conditioning on the private plane was freezingthe kind of cold that seeped into bones and settled there like a permanent guest.

I asked the attendant for a cashmere blanket and wrapped myself in it tightly, cocooning myself against the chill and everything I was leaving behind.

I leaned back in the leather seat.

Sleep came fast and heavy, dragging me under before I could fight it. I didn't hear the takeoff announcement. Didn't feel the moment the wheels left the ground and carried me away from Volpe territory forever.

Only one thought remained, drifting through the darkness like smoke.

Goodbye, Nico.

May you and your Massima rot together in the empire you built on my bones.