---- Chapter 10 Giovanni POV: The panic began to recede, replaced by the familiar, comforting weight of my own authority. This was a problem, and | solved problems. That is what a Don does. | walked into my empty study, the place where | commanded my world, and pulled out my laptop from my travel bag. First step: control her finances. Freeze her accounts. Cut off her resources. She would come running back within days. | logged into our joint banking portal. | navigated to her personal accounts, the ones | managed for her. | initiated a freeze. "TRANSACTION FAILED: ACCOUNT CLOSED." | stared at the red letters on the screen. Closed? That wasn't possible. | tried again. Same result. My phone rang. It was the private number for my personal banker at a Swiss institution. "Mr. Moretti," he said, his voice strained. "We have a situation. We received a legal petition this morning. All accounts under the name Isabella Moretti have been closed and the assets liquidated." ---- "Liquidated to where?" | demanded, a cold feeling spreading through my chest. "That's the issue, sir. They were converted to untraceable bearer bonds. As of yesterday morning, her legal name was officially changed back to Isabella Rossi. She acted as a Rossi, with sole proprietorship over funds you placed in her name years ago. It was all perfectly legal. Ironclad, in fact." A memory surfaced, dim and distant. Years ago, my father's *Consigliere* had advised it. "Set up accounts in your wife's maiden name, Giovanni. For tax purposes. Asset protection." | had signed the papers without a second thought, pleased with my own cleverness. | had handed her the gun and forgotten all about it. Now she had shot me with it. A wave of impotent fury washed over me. She had outmaneuvered me. She had used my own tools, my own arrogance, against me. Fine. There were other ways. | tried to access her social media. Her profiles were gone. Not just deactivated. Erased. As if she had never existed. Her photos, her posts, our life together-wiped from the digital universe. | called my head of IT, a genius hacker | kept on a multi-million dollar retainer. "| need you to find my wife's digital footprint," | commanded. ---- "Restore her social media. | don't care what it costs." He was quiet for a long time. "Sir... it's not possible. The data hasn't just been deleted. It's been professionally scrubbed. Deep-level erasure. This wasn't an amateur job. This was planned. Meticulously." The phone felt heavy in my hand. Every door | tried was slamming shut in my face. She had thought of everything. She had built a fortress of anonymity around herself. Frustration and a feeling | hadn't experienced since childhood -helplessness-began to claw at me. "| will find her," | snarled to the empty room. "I don't care where she is. | don't care how long it takes. She is my wife." | called the head of my security team, a man who had done wet work for my father. A man who could find anyone, anywhere. "Find Isabella," | ordered. "Use every resource. Facial recognition, satellite tracking, informants. | want her found. Now. "Yes, Don Moretti," he said, his voice a gravelly promise. "We will find your queen."