Once we get to the conference room, Rico takes the seat at the head of the table and slouches in the chair with the smug posture of a man who owns the place. No doubt, he believes he’s about to come into a windfall. How presumptuous. Especially considering the fact that Marco is sitting in the chair beside him, wearing a bespoke suit and a menacing expression. I know he’s probably here purely for show, and maybe to keep Rico in line, but I’m glad to have his support.
Dante pulls out a chair for me on the other end of the table and sits next to me. We clasp hands and I make myself take a slow, deep breath.
“So. Should we begin?” Rico says eagerly, smoothing his tie.
Typical Rico, trying to take control of the situation. But no matter. It’s obvious that Dante’s the one in charge—since everyone in the room is looking at him, waiting for him to get the ball rolling.
Just then, Armani appears in the doorway and leans against it. I see him shake his head at Dante, who responds with a slight nod. I have no idea what it means, but it comforts me. Marco’s gaze gets even more hard and focused, a slight smile on his face, and Rico looks between the three brothers and suddenly sits upright.
“Let’s get started,” Dante says, his voice steely.
Clearing his throat nervously, Rico pulls his copy of the divorce papers out of his jacket and slides them across the table toward me and Dante, just out of reach.
“If you can just give me my check, I will sign off on the divorce and be on my way. That is best for everyone, you see?” Rico babbles. “I have always dreamed of buying a villa on the island of Sardinia. Getting a boat, too, and fishing every day. Swordfish and snapper. Maybe I will open a restaurant on the beach! How lucky I am, to have married into such a rich family.”
His gloating is unbearable. But as he blathers on about all his plans for the money, I start to realize that the reason he must have left me in the first place wasn’t because he couldn’t take care of me—it was becauseIcouldn’t take care of him.
It all makes sense now. After we got married, he started pressing me about us buying a house together, and asking how much money I thought my father would send as a “wedding gift” for our new home. When I finally confessed that my family was broke, Rico had acted like it made no difference to him. But sure enough…he’d skipped out on me, just days later.
Jesus. He’d only married me because he thought he was marrying into wealth. Generational wealth. American vineyard family wealth. And when things didn’t pan out, he left me alone in a foreign country.
Until he suddenly shows upagain, exploiting meagain, coincidentally popping up in my hometown the moment my fortunes have reversed. Likely thanks to stalking me on social media.
Rico’s done talking, apparently. I haven’t been paying attention, but he’s staring at me as if expecting some kind of response. He glances at Dante. “Do you need to go get your checkbook, or…?”
Dante gives my hand a squeeze and slowly stands up. He reaches for the divorce papers on the table, picks them up, and then—right in front of Rico’s eyes—rips the papers down the middle. Then he places them back on the table.
I’m not sure who’s more shocked—me, or Rico.
Has Dante been lying to me? Does he not want me at all? Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe I’m not worth the price…
“What was that for? I am going to have to get new copies made!” Rico looks like he’s about to stand from his seat, but Armani stops him with a firm hand on his arm.
Dante coolly says, “Your marriage to Frankie wasn’t recorded in anyUfficio dello Stato Civileanywhere in Italy. Nor were any marriage certificates filed with any government, US or Italian. You two were never, ever married. Not legally, anyway.”
“What?” I whisper, my heart stuttering in my chest.
“That’s a lie,” Rico says. “I have the documents—”
“You have jack shit,” Marco cuts in, grinning.
“And you are legally entitled to precisely nothing,” Armani adds.
Rico’s eyes dart from Bellanti to Bellanti. “This is a bluff. The marriage is legal. I can get you the papers,” he insists, his voice pitching higher with panic.
Dante doesn’t even blink. “You’re welcome to try, but falsifying marriage documents is a crime. In your country and mine. My legal team would, of course, be happy to prosecute you to the full extent of the law.”
I rack my brain, recalling our quick, cheap ceremony. The “priest” that Rico hired from the village…an elderly man who barely spoke outside of asking us to recite our vows…I never questioned whether he was ordained or not.
Rico had staged the entire thing from the very beginning.
The dilapidated country church that he thought would be so quaint. The paperwork I signed after the ceremony—it was in Italian, and I skimmed it, but I hadn’t actually given it a thorough read. I just assumed it had been a legal standard marriage certificate.
How the hell could I have been so stupid?
“You’re lying!” Rico fumes. “What kind of game is this?”
Dante shrugs. “You tell us.”
