The Donna's Last Confession

The confession was fifty pages long. Fifty pages of lies, all of them leading back to me. I stared at the U.S. Attorney’s seal. My face floated in the polish of my husband’s desk. “Sign it, Serena.” Riccardo Moretti used the patient tone he reserved for men he planned to kill. “It’s a formality. The lawyers will have you out in eighteen months, minimum security. It’s for the family.” He slid a second document across the table. The divorce agreement came to rest against the confession. My freedom, priced at a federal felony conviction. “This is to protect Elena.” He tapped the divorce agreement. “Her reputation as a charity angel is vital to our image. We can’t have her name dragged through the mud.” He reached for my cheek. I leaned away. His hand hung there for a beat, as if he had never expected me to move, before he dropped it. Two weeks earlier, a hospital room had put an end to it. I picked up the Montblanc pen I had given him for our fifth anniversary and signed the agreement: “Serena Rossi.” My own name, the one I had been born with before he buried it under his. Riccardo smiled. He rose and turned his back to me. Elena waited in the doorway, worrying her lower lip. “It’s done,” he murmured, his hand settling on the small of her back. While he looked at her, I reached under the table. The micro-drive hidden in my cuff was no bigger than my thumbnail. It held ten years of Moretti records: core ledgers, offshore accounts, kill orders filed as business expenses. Under the table, I pressed it into Alex Vance’s palm. Riccardo knew him as the new security consultant. I knew he worked for the FBI. Alex closed his hand without looking at me. The drive was gone. Riccardo guided Elena out of the room. The edge of the chair pressed into my palms as I watched them leave. Two federal marshals entered. One stood on either side of me while the cuffs clicked shut around my wrists. The marshals led me into the transport vehicle. Its heavy door slammed, and the van pulled away.