Too Late, Mr. Capo: Your Wife Is Gone

The clinic staff bandaged my burns and gave me strong painkillers.

Matteo never came.

My phone buzzed with a text: She's threatening to starve herself. I have to stay. Come home. I love you.

I didn't reply. I just deleted it.

I went back to the De Luca estate.

The house wasn't quiet; it was still. An unnerving stillness.

I climbed the stairs, my only goal the master bedroom. I needed to get out of this ruined dress and sleep for a week.

But the door was ajar.

Inside, chaos reigned. Boxes everywhere.

Bianca stood in the center of the room, directing two terrified-looking maids.

"Put those in the attic," she ordered, pointing a manicured finger at a pile of my things.

My ballet shoes. My old practice tutus. My photos from Moscow.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

Bianca turned.

She was wearing one of Matteo's crisp white shirts, the hem brushing her thighs.

"Oh, Sierra," she said softly, her eyes wide with manufactured innocence.

"Didn't Matteo tell you?"

"Tell me what?" I stepped into the room, my heart beginning a dull, heavy thud against my ribs.

"A pipe burst in the guest wing," she explained lightly.

"It flooded. Completely unlivable."

She smoothed the front of Matteo's shirt.

"Matteo said I should stay in the master bedroom until they fix the guest rooms. He said you wouldn't mind moving to one of the guest rooms down the hall."

She paused, her smile sharpening.

"Since... since you two are divorced anyway."

She gestured with her chin towards the signed divorce papers on the nightstand.

Rage, hot and stinging, finally broke through the numbing haze of the painkillers.

"Get out," I said.

She smiled, a cruel twist of her lips that Matteo never saw.

"He doesn't love you, Sierra," she murmured, stepping into my personal space.

"He married you for the alliance. He stays with me because of blood."

Her gaze drifted over my bandages.

"You were just a placeholder."

She picked up a framed photo of Matteo and me from our wedding day.

She held it for a moment, then let her fingers go slack.

The glass didn't just break; it shattered with a deafening crack, exploding across the hardwood floor.

"Oops," she said, not looking down.

"PTSD tremors. I'm so clumsy."

I lunged at her.

I wasn't thinking. Adrenaline erased the pain.

I just wanted to wipe that smug smile off her face.

I grabbed her arm.

She screamed-a piercing, ear-splitting shriek that echoed through the house.

"Get off me!" she shrieked.

And then she pushed.

Hard.

I was standing at the top of the landing, near the open door.

My heel caught on the edge of the Persian runner.

I tipped backward.

Time stretched, becoming a slow, agonizing crawl. I saw the crystal facets of the chandelier above me, winking like a thousand indifferent eyes.

I saw Bianca's face, the muscles twitching in a grotesque victory smile.

And then I saw Matteo, sprinting down the hallway, his eyes locking on mine just as gravity took hold.

"Matteo!" I screamed.

But he was too far away.

I hit the first step.

Then the second.

Bone against marble.

The ceiling and floor became a kaleidoscope of pain and color as I was thrown down the long, curving staircase, my body slamming against the unforgiving stone.

When I finally came to a stop at the bottom, a profound silence rushed in.

I couldn't feel my legs.

I stared at the ceiling, a single tear escaping the corner of my eye.

Matteo was beside me instantly, his hands hovering over my broken body, his face white as a ghost.

"Sierra! Oh God, Sierra!"

From the top of the stairs, Bianca started screaming hysterically.

"He hit me! The kidnapper hit me! Get away!"

She was reenacting the past.

Matteo looked up at her, torn-the screaming woman above, the broken wife below.

Then he looked down at me.

I saw it in his eyes.

The hesitation.

That single moment of hesitation hurt more than the fall itself; it was the final blow, the one that truly shattered my spine. The marble had just caused the cracks. This would be the last time.