sia

bedded within a thirty-page "International Loan and Insurance Agreement for the 16th-Century Bellini Altarpiece." The font, the

fficiency. "Mrs. Conti," the receptionist murmured, her

I said, my voice even. "Th

ve assistant for decades, greeted me outside his office with a tight, sad smil

ara wasn't a dalliance; she was his

d I hadn't heard directed at me in years. It echoed from behind the imposing

n't k

d the d

rge maritime map spread across Enzo's desk, her tailored suit sharp, her finger tr

er, his hand resting casually on the back of h

eyes, a cold, analytical gray, hardened. Annoyance

ia. I'

I said, my voice a

Your wife just had her triumph. I'm sure she's just tying up loose ends." Her words were

completely. I placed the portfolio down, opening it to the marked sign

rt-stopping moment, I thought he'd see through it. L

tasting like ash. "The primary asset holder must sign off befo

pain from the night before into a s

are, searchin

siness," Chiara cut in, her voice an impatient blade. She had i

ntion shifting.

om his desk-the sleek fountain pen I'd given him

ure line, as they always did for anything related to my "h

e flipped to the next page-the page-and signed agai

k into the portfolio

aid, the words f

anced back. Chiara was smiling, smug

eckmated the king, and she wa

ened the portfolio and stared at his sign

signed awa

gned away

had n