The Mafia Boss Told Her to Take Off Her Husband’s Ring, but Her Answer Changed Who Owed Whom

By Friday afternoon, the news of my showdown with Marco Moretti had spread through Boston's high-society like wildfire.

I sat in the office of my divorce attorney, Arthur Vance—a ruthless eighty-year-old lawyer who had worked for my father-in-law decades ago.

"Claire," Arthur said, sliding a thick stack of papers across his polished glass desk. "Miles's public defender called me three times today. He is crying in his cell."

"Good," I said, signing my name in sharp, blue ink on the top page. "What are the terms?"

"Because of the wire fraud and his admission of embezzling corporate funds, the court has granted an emergency freeze on all his personal assets," Arthur explained with a grim smile. "He gets nothing. The house, the firm, the remaining accounts—everything reverts forty-nine percent to the corporation, giving you one hundred percent control."

"And his release?"

"He's facing eight to twelve years in federal prison for wire fraud and money laundering," Arthur said. "Unless somebody posts his two million dollar bail. Which nobody will."

Just then, my phone buzzed on the desk.

It was a text from an unknown number.

I posted it.

I stared at the screen. My stomach dropped into a cold pit.

Before I could reply, my phone rang. I picked it up immediately.

"Claire," Miles’s voice rasped through the speaker, filled with a terrifying, unhinged venom. "You thought you could destroy me? You thought you could run to Roman Vale?"