Too Late, Mr. Capo: Your Wife Is Gone

Sierra's POV:

I sat alone at a table set for two.

He was forty minutes late.

He'd missed our anniversary party. Now he was late for dinner.

I signaled the waiter for another glass of water, my throat raw from silently rehearsing the ultimatums I planned to deliver. But it wasn't the waiter who appeared.

It was them.

Matteo walked in, his hand firm on her waist.

Bianca.

She looked frail, wrapped in an oversized cashmere shawl, her eyes wide and wet.

She wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be talked down from her episode and tucked into a bed in the guest wing of our estate.

Matteo guided her to my table, his jaw tight. A flicker of guilt crossed his face when he saw me, quickly replaced by exhaustion.

"She's afraid to eat alone," he said, his gaze sliding past my shoulder. "She's traumatized, Sierra."

I looked at Bianca.

She gave me a tremulous, tear-streaked smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"I'm so sorry to intrude, Sierra," she whispered. "I just... I can't be alone. The memories..."

She reached for the breadbasket, and her shawl slipped.

She was wearing a silk scarf tied around her neck.

It was identical to the rope the kidnappers had used to bind her five years ago.

It was her trigger. She always wore it.

"Bianca, why are you dressed like that?" I asked, my voice flat.

Her eyes widened; she gasped as if realizing it for the first time.

"Oh my God!" she cried.

She flinched back, her hands flailing.

One connected with the tall glass of Americano the waiter had just placed in front of me.

Scalding black liquid didn't just spill; it arced, a wave of heat splashing across my chest and neck.

I couldn't make a sound. A gasp lodged in my throat. The heat seared my skin like a brand, stealing the air from my lungs.

"Sierra!" Matteo yelled.

But he didn't reach for me.

Bianca started hyperventilating, screaming that the black liquid looked like blood.

Matteo pulled her into his arms, murmuring to her, stroking her hair.

"It's just coffee, look at me, breathe," he whispered.

I sat there, coffee soaking my white silk dress, the delicate skin of my chest burning.

The pain was intense, unbearable.

But it was nothing compared to the dull, familiar ache settling in my stomach.

That burning sensation pulled me back.

Two months ago.

Matteo had stayed with Bianca through a thunderstorm because she was afraid of lightning.

I'd been left alone to entertain the Bratva emissaries.

I'd had to outdrink three Russians to salvage a deal Matteo had failed to close.

The lining of my stomach had torn. It had taken two days to recover.

Then I'd lost my position as principal dancer with the Bolshoi because my body was too battered to survive the season's training.

Matteo had called it a sacrifice for the family.

I stood up, my chair scraping against the floor, shattering the restaurant's hushed ambiance.

Matteo looked up at me, his gaze finally landing on the angry red mark blooming on my skin.

"Sierra, you're hurt," he said, with a note of absurd surprise in his voice.

"I'm leaving," I said.

I grabbed my purse.

"Wait, I'll call the driver," Matteo started, but Bianca let out a sharp wail, clutching his collar.

"Don't leave me, Matteo! Please! The men in black are coming!"

Matteo looked at her, then at me.

"Go to the clinic, Sierra," he said, his voice hardening. "I'll meet you there when she's calm."

I turned my back on them.

I walked out of the restaurant, the cold night air biting my burned skin.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I knew by heart.

"Dad," I said.

"Principessa? What's wrong?"

"He signed again," I said, my voice flat. "The eighteenth time. I can't do this anymore. This time, I want it to be real."

Silence greeted my words.

"Are you sure?" he asked finally.

"Yes," I said, looking at my reflection in the dark window. "This will be the last time. I'm divorcing him for real."