"Mara who?"
Vittorio's denial came too fast. His throat bobbed like a man swallowing glass.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
But his mind was already racing back to that day. The doorman's call. Rushing home. Finding her standing there—disheveled, worn down, nothing like the woman he married. The woman who once commanded boardrooms and made seasoned capos lower their eyes.
Then the elevator. His arm around Mara. His lips on hers. His gaze sliding past a hunched figure in the corner. Messy hair. Wrinkled clothes. Chapped lips.
No. His brain went white. He looked away from the memory, lowering his voice. He was a master of deception—he'd negotiated with rival families, lied to federal agents, smiled at men he planned to kill. But this lie tasted like copper.
"I cut things off
