He lays a folder on the counter, sliding it forward like a contract written in blood. “You’re going to sign. Then tomorrow morning, you’ll be on a plane to Buenos Aires. You’ll disappear. No calls. No letters. No trail that leads back here. As far as the world is concerned, you were left to start a new life in shame. This is what happens when you fuck with the Faretti family.”
I sneer, trying to hold onto my bravado. “And if I don’t?”
His smile is colder than death. “Then the reaper comes knocking. And this time, Donovan, you won’t have the luxury of walking away.”
My signature bleeds across the page, jagged and furious. I slam the pen down like it’ll change the fact that I just gave hereverything. The paper stares back at me, mocking, my name scrawled there in a surrender that I can’t take back.
He closes the folder with unhurried precision, tucking it beneath his arm as if I’ve signed off on nothing more than routine paperwork. At the door, he pauses, his gaze cutting sharp enough to split bone.
“You gave her back the Carrington name,” he says, smooth, final. “And with that name, she’s dangerous. Dangerous women don’t ask. They claim.”
The name lingers in the air like a curse. Carrington. It doesn’t sound like lineage anymore—it sounds like a verdict. The words sink deep, heavier than they should be. Relief should follow—at least it would for any other man—but all I feel is something twisting in my gut. Salvatore isn’t gloating. He’s entombing me in that name, sealing me into something I’ll never crawl out of. It doesn’t sound like Stella’s win. It sounds like my eulogy, and the sickest part is, I can’t tell if it’s already begun.
The door shuts behind him. His footsteps fade down the hall, but the echo stays lodged in my ribs, a steady drumbeat I can’t silence. Not pride. Not fury. Just the hollow certainty that something has already ended, and I’m too blind to see how.
Stella
The doors of the conference room swing open, and I don’t hesitate. My head is high, my stride deliberate, the click of my stilettos striking the floor like punctuation. The merlot suit, the cream silk beneath, the sharp black heels—it’s armor, and I wear it well. Elaine walks beside me, every inch as composed, our presence filling the room before we even reach the table.
I stop at the head of the conference table, eyes locking on Salvatore. “Let’s finalize the terms,” I say, crisp and professional, like the room has always belonged to me.
His gaze drags over me, slow and measuring, the kind of look meant to find cracks. A smirk touches his mouth. “You look… different,” he says, the words smooth but taunting.
I grin, unbothered. “You know, Enzo, I woke up this morning and remembered who the fuck I am.”
The silence that follows bends around me instead of pressing down. For once, it isn’t Salvatore who owns the pause. It’s me.
I lower myself into the chair at the head of the table, crossing my legs slowly, deliberately, the stiletto dangling like punctuation. Enzo nods toward Elaine, and she slips gracefullyinto the seat beside me, a silent show of force. His hands rest on the armrests of his chair, deliberate and steady. The only sound in the room is the sharp tick of his watch—expensive, precise, and merciless.
“I assume you received my gift yesterday?” His tone is silk wrapped around steel.
My chin tilts, unbothered. “How did you get him to sign without a fight?”
He leans back, lips curving. “He and I had a…chat. We came to an agreement. He is no longer a concern of yours. This”—his arms spread wide, claiming the room, the empire, the weight of the name—“is all yours, Stellina. And he will never claw his way to the top again, not on the wreckage he created.”
My pulse thrums, steady, cold. He doesn’t give me long to savor it.
“Now, for your part of the arrangement. You’ll know when the first package arrives. Once received, you simply put it through the cremation process. During a burial, you dig slightly deeper, scatter the ashes, backfill, and proceed with the service as if nothing happened.”
I blink, the words folding in slowly. “I don’t understand…” I say it more for the confirmation than the clarity.
Salvatore’s smile sharpens, cruel and knowing. “I told you, Stella. Up in smoke. That’s how pests disappear.”
He rises, moving toward the door. At the threshold, he glances at Elaine, his expression unreadable.
“And Elaine, don’t be surprised if we call on you for legal counsel.”
Then his eyes return to me, sharp as glass. “Now show me how loyal you really are.”
Days later, my phone buzzes—one word from Enzo.
Enzo: Delivery.
Elaine and I drive in silence, the weight of it pressing down heavier with every mile. The crematorium looms ahead, empty and waiting, its shadow stretching long in the late light. Inside, the chill of concrete and steel greets us, sterile and unfeeling.
The body bag is black. Plain. Unmarked. It waits on the gurney like it’s been expecting us.
Dread coils through me, thick and suffocating, but I already know what has to be done. I glance at Elaine, the question catching in my throat. “Do we… verify who it is?”
