My heels clicked against the cobblestones with deliberate precision. Each step carried me closer to the table where my husband—my former husband—sat with the woman who had stolen my research, my reputation, and apparently, whatever remained of his capacity for human warmth.
I stopped directly in front of them.
The dissolution papers I had been clutching the entire way—I slammed them down on the table.
Hard.
The impact sent Massima's fresh-squeezed juice sloshing over the rim of its crystal glass. Nico's espresso followed, dark liquid spreading across the white linen like a bloodstain.
The coffee splashed onto Massima's cream-colored dress—a designer piece, no doubt purchased with Volpe money.
She gasped. Theatrical. Wounded.
The next second, Nico's hand shot out and seized my right wrist.
My damaged wrist.
The pain was immediate and blinding, radiating up through the network of poorly-healed bones and severed tendons. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper.
I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.