My mafia boss husband called to say he was spending the night drinking with old classmates.

by

Chapter 10

THEME:
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Salvatore took a slow, rattling breath. He reached inside his jacket, pulled out a heavy gold Montblanc pen, and opened the red folder.

With a shaking hand, he signed his name on the designated lines.

Then he slid the folder across the table to Vincent.

"Sign it," Salvatore whispered, not even looking up at his son.

"Dad..." Vincent’s voice cracked, tears of pure humiliation finally spilling over his lashes. "Dad, don't do this to me..."

"Sign it," his father repeated, his voice hollow and empty. "Or I will strip you of your name myself tonight."

Vincent looked around the room. There was no mercy in any face. Not from his father, not from the captains, not from Sophia, and least of all from me.

Trembling, Vincent picked up the pen. His signature was jagged, clumsy, and crooked.

When he finished, he dropped the pen onto the paper. It rolled off the mahogany table and fell to the floor with a hollow plastic click.

"Are you happy now, Claire?" Vincent choked out, his chest heaving, his face red with ruined pride. "You took everything. My inheritance, my respect, my family."

I picked up the red folder, checked the signatures, and handed it to Michael.

Then, I looked at Vincent for the very last time.

"I didn't take anything from you, Vincent," I said quietly. "You threw it away. You just expected me to pick up the trash."

I turned on my heel and walked toward the stairs.

Behind me, Sophia’s quiet weeping and the low, furious murmuring of the captains filled the basement, but as my heels struck the concrete steps, the sound faded into absolute insignificance.

Eighteen months later.

The summer sun reflected off the deep blue waters of Lake Michigan, sending glittering diamonds of light across the manicured lawn of the Bennett estate in Lake Forest.

The garden was filled with the gentle hum of chamber music and the clinking of champagne flutes. It was the annual gala for the Chicago Art Institute, an event hosted on our private grounds to raise funds for inner-city youth programs.

I stood on the stone terrace overlooking the rose garden, holding a glass of sparkling water, dressed in a backless ivory silk gown that caught the evening breeze. My hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, my posture effortlessly composed.

Beside me stood Julian, holding a copy of the Chicago Tribune.

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Table of Contents
My mafia boss husband called to say he was spending the night drinking with old classmates.
TABLE OF CONTENTS 11
01 Chapter 1 02 Chapter 2 03 Chapter 3 04 Chapter 4 05 Chapter 5 06 Chapter 6 07 Chapter 7 08 Chapter 8 09 Chapter 9 10 Chapter 10 11 Chapter 11

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