a P

ir

a stack of folded napkins. "I am so sorry. This is Lena. She's new. She

and assessing, flicked from me to Maria, then back agai

, the potentially ill ser

urning to one of pure disgust. The hand that had been about to expose me now waved me

the ferocity of a wolf, but he was actively planning to "handle" his own wife. In that moment, watching him shi

by to fill the silent halls of our ridiculously large estate. He had refused, his voice gentle

as perfect. He just didn't want an

is wasn't about love or heartbreak anymore. Divorce w

nted

y to the old ways, to honor. Marco, the Marino family's Consigliere. An old-world man who bel

eam. I laid out the photos and played him the recording. I watch

d, his voice a gravelly whisper. "Thi

d him. "But I want to burn

tion of the personal assets my grandmother had left me, fu

tti, was voluntarily relinquishing all claims to the Marino and Moretti names, fortunes, and properties. I was making myself a ghost, a nobody. In our world

ed, his face growing grimmer with each passing second.

rmed the plan for Leo's party," he said. "It's

amily after being "found." The same hotel where Dante and I held our wedding recept

heavy. He slid his phone across the

was my father's voi

wn. A tragic, but not unexpected, decline in her 'delicate' health. We'll send her to a private clinic in Switzerland. Quietly. By

just going

eclare me insane, and bury me

e, Anya Marino-Moretti, for the last time. I wasn't just s

-