My Ex-Husband's Regret, My Freedom

Aria Vitiello POV:

The phone line went dead silent for five agonizing seconds. The only sound was Luca’s heavy, rhythmic breathing vibrating through the cheap plastic speaker of the burner phone. Luca had sworn a blood oath to never interfere with the Vitiello family's business again. But I was his only exception.

"Did he put his hands on you?" Luca finally asked. His voice was dropped an octave, laced with a chilling, murderous frost.

I let out a dry, bitter laugh. "Worse. I've been a dead ex-wife for three years."

Luca cursed violently in Italian. A second later, the sharp, violent sound of glass shattering echoed through the receiver.

I didn't waste time on tears. I spoke fast and mechanically, giving him the facts. I told him about the forged divorce papers, the daily chamomile tea, the asset transfer, and the sick display of Dante on his knees I had just witnessed.

Luca’s demeanor shifted instantly. The protective anger vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating precision of the best cleaner in New York. "Current coordinates."

"The Long Island estate," I answered. "Main house. Second-floor guest room. The perimeter guards swap shifts at exactly three o'clock."

"Listen to me, Aria," Luca said, his tone dead serious. "If I initiate the Ghost Protocol, the name Aria Vitiello ceases to exist. You will have no bank accounts, no identity, no past. You will be erased from the face of the earth."

"Do it."

"If Dante realizes you ran, he won't stop. He will tear apart the entire American continent to find you."

I looked at my pale, ghost-like reflection in the vanity mirror across the room. "I would rather die in a dirty ditch than stay here and become his taxidermy specimen."

"Understood," Luca said, the hesitation gone. "I'm taking the contract."

He gave me rapid-fire instructions. "You have two hours. Pack only what cannot be traced. No electronics, no custom jewelry. At three PM, a severe thunderstorm is going to hit the coast. I will use the lightning strikes to overload the estate's localized grid. You will have exactly a four-minute blind spot on the cameras."

"I'll be ready." I hung up.

I immediately popped the back off the Nokia. I ripped the battery out, snapped the SIM card in half, and walked into the bathroom to flush the plastic chips down the toilet.

I moved to the massive walk-in closet. I bypassed the rows of designer dresses and pushed aside the bottom row of shoe boxes. From the darkest corner, I pulled out a plain, black canvas duffel bag.

I didn't touch the diamond necklaces or the Rolex watches. Every piece of luxury in this house had a serial number. They were trackers disguised as gifts.

I grabbed three sets of plain, dark-colored civilian clothes. I reached into the lining of my winter coat and pulled out a thick stack of untraceable, non-sequential hundred-dollar bills I had been hoarding since before the wedding. I shoved the cash into the bag.

Finally, I took the divorce judgment and the marriage certificate from my Hermes bag. I slid them carefully into a waterproof plastic sleeve and tucked it into the innermost pocket of the duffel. These papers were my only leverage, the only proof of my sanity.

I glanced at the antique wall clock. It was two-fifteen. Forty-five minutes until three o'clock.

I zipped the bag shut and shoved it deep under the shadows of the guest bed.

I walked back into the bathroom and turned on the cold water. I splashed it aggressively onto my face, slapping my cheeks until the color returned. I forced my expression to soften, rebuilding the mask of the calm, dignified Mafia wife.

I stripped off my silk blouse and changed into a simple, light gray loungewear set to hide the fact that I had been fully dressed to go out.

Suddenly, chaotic, heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway. High-pitched, malicious child's laughter echoed outside my door.

My heart rate spiked. I stepped back, staring at the thick wood of the door.

The brass doorknob began to twist violently, rattling against the lock mechanism as someone tried to force their way in. Thank God I had locked it.

"Mrs. Vitiello?" It was Maria, the head maid. Her voice was trembling through the wood. "Mrs. Vitiello, please open the door. Mr. Dante is awake. He demands you come down to the dining room immediately."

I looked down. The black nylon strap of the duffel bag was barely poking out from under the bed. I slid my foot over it, pushing it back into the darkness.

"Tell him I'll be right down after I change."