Sienna POV
The lawyer sat across from me in the high-rise office, his silhouette framed by the glass.
The city skyline loomed behind him, a jagged row of teeth biting into the grey sky.
"It has been four years, Mrs. Vitiello," he said, shuffling the file on his mahogany desk. "Technically, without proof of life, and with the clear evidence of abandonment... we can file for a presumptive death certificate."
I nodded, my expression unyielding.
"Do it."
"We usually wait seven years," he cautioned, peering at me over the rim of his glasses. "Unless there is a compelling reason to expedite the process."
"The compelling reason is that he ceases to exist for us," I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. "We need to clear the titles. We need to secure the estate for his daughter."
An hour later, I drove home to the estate with the papers burning a hole on the passenger seat.
I was worried Don Carlo would hesitate.
It is a hard thing for a father to sign his son's death warrant, even a symbolic one. It goes against every instinct of blood and loyalty that holds this family together.
I found them in the library, the air thick with the scent of old paper and tobacco.
I laid the documents on the heavy oak desk.
"The census keeps asking," I lied, keeping my voice smooth as glass. "The tax authorities are asking questions about his assets. It is dangerous to keep his name on the books with the Feds sniffing around."
I watched the Don’s face for any flicker of resistance.
He looked down at the paper.
Petition for Declaration of Death.
He didn't blink. His expression was carved from stone.
"Give me the pen," he said.
Nonna stood up from her armchair and walked to the family registry kept on the mantle.
It was a thick leather book, heavy with history, recording every birth, marriage, and death in the Vitiello line for a century.
She opened it to Luca’s page.
She took a thick black marker in her trembling hand.
She didn't just cross out his name.
She obliterated it. She scrubbed it out back and forth until the heavy paper tore under the assault.
"He died the day he left," Nonna said, her voice hollow, completely devoid of emotion.
Don Carlo signed the legal document.
The scratch of the pen sounded like a shovel hitting frozen dirt.
"It is done," he said.
He pushed the paper back to me across the polished wood.
"You are the heir, Sienna. You and Mia. There is no one else."
I took the papers, clutching them to my chest.
I felt a weight lift off my shoulders that I hadn't realized I was carrying.
Luca Vitiello was now legally dead.
His passport was invalid. His bank accounts were closed. His social security number was flagged.
If he tried to cross a border, if he tried to open a line of credit, he would be nothing more than a ghost in the machine.
He wanted to be free?
Fine.
Now he was free of everything. Even his own name.
