“My son came home with three broken fingers,” he said slowly.
My eyes shifted toward my bodyguard. He lowered his head, avoiding my gaze. I laughed carelessly, my voice dripping with disdain.
“My man was a bit reckless. So, does Don Bianchi expect me to pay the price with three fingers of my own?”
Matteo’s lips curved into a smile, but it was sharp, like a blade hidden beneath silk.
“Sylvia was so consumed by guilt that she jumped from a building. She survived … but the child she carried did not.”
“Victoria, that was my second child. And you took the child from me. Don’t you think you owe me an apology?”
I snatched the cigarette from his hand and lit one for myself. Through the swirling smoke, my lips curled into a fearless smile.
“You should be grateful I didn’t handle it personally,” I said coolly.
“It was just a fucking bastard. So what if it’s gone? Now you tell me, do you truly expect me to mourn it?”
After that, I signaled for someone to bring the divorce papers again and set them down in front of him.
“Either sign these,” I said coldly, “or one of you dies. Matteo, I trust you don’t need me to explain which choice you should make.”