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 outright—a 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 specialists—her 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 shock—smooth 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 lounge—a 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 money—both 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 innocent—the 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 done—what she'd stolen—pressed 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 that—an 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 eyes—satisfaction, 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 painting—beautiful, 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 future—I 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 surface—the 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 hand—the 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 specter—tall, 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 fragile—I 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 stare—soldiers, 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 me—broke 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 again—for 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 us—futures 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 life—or at least the ghost of one.
