His Regret Began at My Funeral

I shook my head softly. "I'm fine. You should have the soup first."

Lorenzo looked momentarily puzzled, then obediently lifted the thermos and finished the broth in one long pull. His amber eyes held that strange mix of warmth and urgency that men in his world rarely allowed themselves, and his lips, flushed from the heat of it, glistened in the low light of the study.

He held up the empty container with a grin too boyish for a man other men feared. "Finished it."

Taking my hand, Lorenzo drew me through the concealed door into the private quarters off his office, past the soldier who stepped aside without a word and lowered his eyes as we passed. His voice was tender, almost reverent.

"Thank you for the soup. Why don't you take a little rest?" He coaxed me onto the wide bed, tucking me beneath the heavy comforter. Then he settled in beside me and pulled me into his arms. His chin rested lightly on the top of my head, his embrace firm and certain, the embrace of a man who had never once doubted what was his.

"Still cold?" he murmured against my hair.

I gave a faint hum, closing my eyes to the sound of his heartbeat. Time blurred while I lay cocooned in his warmth. Soon the slow, even rhythm of his breathing told me he had fallen asleep.

The dim glow of his phone lit the nightstand and drew my eye. I was curious, so I fished it out from beside the pillow. A message from his courier waited on the screen. I keyed in the password, but it didn't work. Lorenzo's code had always been my birthday or his own. I turned the phone over and ran my thumb across the back. There was no trace of the dent I'd left on the one he carried in front of me. This wasn't that phone.

Since neither date worked, I tried another. Our betrothal day, maybe. Wrong again.

I sat frozen, my thumb pressing without thought against the old scar on my wrist. Then Bianca's name surfaced in my mind. I began feeding the phone dates tied to her birthday. After several failed attempts, it finally unlocked.

I smiled without meaning to, pride and grief washing through me at once. So this was the phone he kept for her.

I opened the message from his courier. [Don Falcone, the transfer deed for the beachfront tower is finalized.]

A file sat beneath it. I opened it. The name on the deed was clear. Bianca Sartori.

I scrolled. More deeds. Estate papers, a villa, a limited-run car worth more than most men in this life ever cleaned in a year. The beachfront tower was only one stone in a fortune he had quietly funneled to her, all of it dressed as legitimate holdings, all of it hers.

The earliest record was a will. After his death, everything he owned would pass to Bianca.

The screen dimmed from disuse, and in the dark reflection I saw my own lifeless eyes and the reddened, tear-stained line of my nose staring back at me.

I was the one who turned this Family's money clean. The architect every boss in the territory trusted with their tribute. And yet here I was, blindsided by a truth that should have been plain. I had managed Lorenzo's wealth for years and never once seen that most of it bled out to someone else. My reflection seemed to be laughing at me.

Then a detail caught my eye. A photo of a jeweler's certificate for a betrothal ring.

I froze.

It was the same ring I'd fallen in love with the day we chose our bands. Back then Lorenzo had dismissed it with a tight, strained smile.

"My wife deserves something bigger. Something with weight to it. This one is too plain," he'd said.

The jeweler had gushed about how fortunate I was, to be promised to such a generous man. Wanting to please him, I'd chosen the heavier, showier ring, though my heart had stayed with the simple one.

Three days ago, Bianca had posted a single live photo to her feed. No caption. But there it was, the understated ring sitting on her finger.

My hands trembling, I played the audio buried in the image. The noise of some crowded room nearly drowned the voices, but Lorenzo's came through clear as a struck bell.

"I knew you'd love it."

The realization hit me like a freight train. It had only ever been an excuse. He hadn't refused it for me. He'd refused it because it was always meant for her.

My fingers clenched around the phone, nails biting into my palm as my chest heaved with silent sobs. When I finally looked down, my knuckles had gone white and the screen had dimmed again.

I set the phone back on the nightstand. And I made my decision.

By tomorrow I would be gone. On my own phone, I booked a one-way passage across the water to Dubai, far past the reach of the old Families, far past anything Lorenzo had built around me.

The next morning, Lorenzo had already gone.

His courier let himself in, carrying a tray of toiletries and a polite smile that asked for nothing and revealed less. He glanced at the watch on his wrist before he spoke.

"Good morning, Miss Valente. Don Falcone left last night. Urgent business out of the territory. He asked me to tell you the betrothal feast is postponed two days."

I nodded without really hearing, my gaze fixed on the window as the sun climbed over the harbor. Two days. He wouldn't find me in two days. By the time he came home, I would be gone. Vanished from his world for good.