Chapter 1 - The Departure
The heavy mahogany door clicked shut with a muffled, airtight sound that signaled finality. Matteo Rossi did not look back. He adjusted the lapels of his tailored Brioni suit, his jaw tight with the lingering irritation of a domestic dispute that had consumed the last hour of his night. To the underworld of Boston, he was a ruthless syndicate leader—a man who dictated terms, traded in blood and imported steel, and never, under any circumstances, apologized.
Yet, within the climate-controlled silence of his fortress-like estate, he felt an inconvenient knot of tension in his chest. It had nothing to do with rival syndicates or federal task forces. It had to do with the heavy, unblinking stare of his seven-month-pregnant wife, Norah.
Just twenty minutes earlier, Norah had sat at the quartz kitchen island, a glass of ice water sweating in front of her. She hadn't screamed. She hadn't thrown plates or dissolved into hysterical tears—reactions Matteo was well-equipped to handle, dismiss, or buy off with high-end jewelry. Instead, she had simply slid a pair of first-class airline tickets to Santorini across the counter. The tickets were for the delayed honeymoon they never took, originally derailed three years ago by a federal indictment that Matteo had ultimately beaten through intimidation and expensive legal counsel.
“Take her,” Norah had said, her voice chillingly calm.
"Her" was Harper—a twenty-four-year-old fashion publicist with vanilla-and-gardenia perfume that had stubbornly clung to Matteo’s collars for the past three months. Harper was uncomplicated, loud-laughing, and completely ignorant of the violence that stained Matteo’s hands. She wanted sunset photos, high-end shopping sprees, and platinum credit cards.
Matteo had scoffed at the time, slamming his crystal glass against the granite. “Don’t start this, Norah. I provide everything for you. You live in a palace. Men die trying to take what I have, and I keep you safe. You don’t get to dictate terms to me.”
“I’m not dictating,” she had replied, her gaze steady, devoid of any warmth or expectation. “I’m conceding.”
Now, seated inside the private Gulfstream jet as it taxied down the runway at Logan International, Matteo shook off the memory. Beside him, Harper beamed, her fingers tracing the expensive leather seat.
“Can you believe we’re finally going to Greece?” Harper chirped, popping a champagne bottle with a sharp, festive snap. “You’re the best, Matteo. I swear, nobody spoils me like you do.”
“Drink your champagne, Harper,” Matteo muttered, staring out the oval window as the city lights blurred beneath the gathering rain.
May you like
He convinced himself that Norah was merely sulking. He believed she was playing a quiet, passive-aggressive game, hoping to make him worry so he would cut his trip short and come crawling back with a peace offering. He had left strict instructions with Arthur, his head of security. The perimeter was locked down, the guards were doubled, and Norah was confined to the house for her own safety—or so Matteo thought.
He didn't know that the moment his car turned down the private drive four days ago, Norah had stopped being his wife. She had transformed into an exit strategist.
