---- Chapter 8 Giovanni POV: The flight back was perfect. | was on top of the world. | had closed a major deal in Chicago, a hostile takeover that would make the Moretti name even more feared in the corporate world. And | had Sofia with me, warm and pliant in the seat beside me, a delightful distraction. "You seem happy," she purred, tracing a finger down my arm. "Business is good," | said, pouring myself another glass of scotch. | was celebrating. | was Don Giovanni Moretti. | had everything a man could want: power, wealth, a beautiful mistress, and a perfect, loyal wife waiting for me at home. Sofia was getting a little clingy, a little demanding, but that was a problem for another day. She was an asset, and | managed my assets effectively. A penthouse, a generous allowance-it was a small price to pay for her loyalty and discretion. As for Bella... the thought of her caused a small, irritating flicker of guilt. She'd been distant lately, sad. The stress of our life was getting to her. But | would fix it. The trip to Santorini, a new piece of jewelry. | was good at fixing things. She was my anchor. She was the one pure, untouchable thing in my life, the foundation upon which my public empire was ---- built. A Don's wife had to be above reproach, and Isabella was a saint. The jet landed smoothly. | sent Sofia off in a separate car, a necessary precaution. "I'll call you tomorrow," | promised, giving her a quick, dismissive kiss. The drive home, | imagined Bella waiting for me. Maybe she'd be in the kitchen, a late dinner prepared. Maybe she'd be in bed, wearing one of those silk things | liked. The thought warmed me. My saint. My queen. The gates to our estate slid open. The house was dark. That was strange. Bella was usually afraid of the dark. | walked in. "Bella?" | called out. Silence. The sound of my own voice echoed in the cavernous foyer. An unnatural silence. The air was cold. Still. | flipped a light switch. Nothing. | flipped another. The power was on, but the rooms were... empty. A cold dread, an emotion | hadn't felt in years, began to creep up my spine. | walked through the downstairs. The living room was stripped bare. The dining room, where we'd hosted governors and senators, was a hollow, empty box. My study- my books, my desk, my awards-all gone. "Bella!" | shouted, my voice raw with a rising panic. | took the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering in my ---- chest. This had to be some kind of sick joke. A robbery? No. Not here. Not in my fortress. | burst into our bedroom. It was empty. The mattress was bare. The closets stood open, her side completely barren. Her scent, that soft, clean fragrance that always clung to the room, was gone. And then | saw it. On the middle of the bare mattress, two objects sat side-by- side. A thick manila envelope. And a small, black silk pouch. My hands were shaking as | opened the envelope. Divorce papers. Signed. My name was listed as the respondent. The grounds: irreconcilable differences. Then | opened the pouch. A lump of gold fell into my palm. It was misshapen, ugly, melted beyond recognition. It took me a second to realize what it was. What it used to be. Her wedding ring. A sound tore from my throat, a primal roar of rage and disbelief. It wasn't possible. She couldn't. She wouldn't. She was mine. | grabbed the nearest thing-a lamp the thieves had somehow ---- missed-and hurled it against the wall. It shattered. | kicked a hole in the drywall. | swept the contents of my nightstand to the floor. | destroyed everything | could touch, my vision clouded by a red haze of fury. She had left me. My perfect, loyal Bella. My anchor. She had cut the rope. And in the echoing silence of the empire | had built, | heard the sound of a king who had just lost his queen. It was the sound of my own undoing.