---- Chapter 12 Giovanni POV: The police station was a sterile, impersonal place that smelled of stale coffee and disinfectant. | sat across from two detectives, my lawyer beside me, and spun my tale of a loving husband worried sick about his emotionally fragile wife. "She's been under a lot of stress," | said, my voice thick with feigned concern. "She hasn't been herself lately. I'm afraid she might hurt herself." The older detective, a man with tired eyes that had seen every lie imaginable, just looked at me. He didn't write anything down. "Mr. Moretti," he said, his voice flat. "We're aware of your... situation. We received an anonymous tip last week." My lawyer stiffened. "A tip about what?" "About your mistress, Sofia Marchetti," the detective said, his gaze unwavering. "And her pregnancy. Is that the 'stress' your wife was under?" The air was sucked out of the room. | was speechless. The Don of the Moretti Family, caught in a cheap, tawdry lie by a city cop. The humiliation was a physical thing, a hot flush that ---- crawled up my neck. My lawyer's phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, his face paling. "Giovanni, we need to go. Now." In the car, he handed me his tablet. It was an email from Marcus Thorne, Isabella's lawyer. Attached was a copy of the divorce petition he had just filed on her behalf. "| will not sign it," | snarled, shoving the tablet back at him. "She is my wife. This is a temporary insanity. | will find her, and | will bring her home." | started rambling, a frantic, desperate appeal to no one. "She needs me. She doesn't know what she's doing. She's delicate. She can't survive out there alone." My lawyer just looked at me with pity. "Gio, there's more." He swiped to another document. And another. It was a dossier. A thick file of evidence Isabella had compiled against me. Phone records of my calls with Sofia. Credit card statements for the penthouse apartment, the jewelry, the dinners. Photos. Videos. Enough evidence to not only grant the divorce but to publicly crucify me. Enough to make the Moretti name a laughingstock. "She wants nothing, Gio," my lawyer said softly. "The petition states she relinquishes all claim to your assets. She just wants to be free." The fight drained out of me, replaced by a profound, crushing ---- defeat. | slumped in the leather seat, the weight of my own stupidity pressing down on me. She had won. She had checkmated me before | even knew we were playing a game. "Where is she?" | whispered, the words barely audible. "Just tell me where she is." | looked at my lawyer, a man whose loyalty | had bought a thousand times over. | could see the answer in his eyes before he even spoke. "| can't, Gio. Attorney-client privilege. My hands are tied." "I'll double your retainer," | said, my voice cracking with desperation. "Triple it. Name your price." He just shook his head slowly. "It's not about the money. Not this time." Every lever of power | had ever known-money, fear, influence -was useless. She had stripped me of all of it, leaving me with nothing but the hollow echo of my own name.