Chapter 1 #4
Outside the banquet hall, I turn left into the far reaches of Brio’s house, not at all surprised to hear the click-clack of Filippa’s heels as she tries to keep up with me.
I’m heading for the library, which is across from Brio’s home office at the end of the hall.
The location is remote enough from the festivities to allow for the private discussion with my wife that I have in mind.
It also doesn’t hurt that Brio had the room soundproofed last year. It makes it ideal for my needs.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Filippa yaps as she follows me inside the spacious library. “We should return to the party. Lucrezia is supposed to find me once she arrives so we can discuss plans for her upcoming birthday. I don’t have time for—”
“Shut the door,” I order and lower myself into the wingback next to the liquor cart.
“Really, Adriano. This is absurd. Whatever you want to discuss could wait until we get home. Right now, we’re expected…”
She keeps droning on and on and on. Her high-pitched yammering is intensifying my migraine.
Of all the things that annoy me most about my wife—and the list is rather long—the sound of her voice is at the top.
But sadly, in business, even favorable deals come with a drawback.
Or two, as in the case of me acquiring the debt-ridden logistics company previously owned by Filippa’s father.
Ten years ago, I was eager to take control of the preapproved international transportation routes that came with existing contracts held by his firm.
To do that, I had to pay off a long list of their creditors, to the tune of seventy-five million dollars.
Pocket change in the larger scheme of things.
The other trifling condition, though, entailed my marrying Filippa.
I’m not certain who came up with that idea, my father-in-law or his moneygrubbing daughter, but I’m willing to bet it was my wife.
I couldn’t care less about getting hitched, but I did want a child.
A son. A daughter. It didn’t really matter, as long as it was mine.
The next generation of the Ruffo line. With that possibility in mind, I deemed the deal with Filippa’s father acceptable.
With one stipulation. I agreed to a marriage of no more than ten years, and if the union did not produce heirs, I could file for divorce once the term was up, and Filippa wouldn’t get a cent.
Filippa is still prattling on about us returning to the banquet hall as I take out my phone and open my text exchange with Brahms, my chief of security.
With one click, I forward the link I received from him shortly before we pulled up to Saccone Villa.
A lone ping from Filippa’s device alerts me to the message’s arrival.
She stops talking immediately and swiftly yanks the cell from her clutch.
“Make sure you turn up the volume,” I urge as I pour myself a glass of Brio’s eighteen-year-old Macallan. “The audio quality is outstanding.”
A moment later, raspy screams fill the room. I watch my wife’s face drain of all color while I nurse my scotch, enjoying the way shock and panic dance across her features as wailing sounds stream from the video on her screen.
“You should have asked for a higher monthly allowance, my dear,” I say. “A mere hundred grand could have bought you a mediocre hitman who might have been able to get the job done. Fucking one instead, in exchange for killing your husband, is rather shortsighted of you.”
The phone slips from Filippa’s hand and crashes to the floor, but the video continues to play, the man’s screams echoing through the library. By the sound of it, it’s the part where Brahms cuts out the would-be assassin’s spleen.
“You bastard,” my wife snaps.
“Please, spare me your phony concerns for your unfortunate lover. We both know you were simply using him.”
“Fuck you!”
I roll my eyes and lean back in the chair.
“Oh, Filippa. Have I not provided you with everything your heart desired? As my wife, the unlimited credit for your nonstop shopping sprees and luxury trips all over the globe for you and your gold-digging girlfriends was a given, but you have outdone yourself in the past couple of years in terms of your extravagant spending. Was it really necessary to jet off to Paris on my corporate plane to get your hair done? Were none of the exclusive salons in Boston or New York to your liking? Or, how about renting out the entire Museum of Fine Arts to host your birthday party? And do not get me started about the vineyard in Spain you purchased simply to prove that you are not as clueless about wine as someone accused you of being.”
“It was my right!” she snaps. “What good is having the money if I can’t spend it how I want. I shouldn’t have to listen to you lecture me about it.”
“Have I ever attempted to curtail your excessive spending? No. Furthermore, it came with unrestrained freedom to do as you please. I even turned a blind eye to you screwing half the men in this city. The only thing I expected in return was for you to stay out of my way.”
“You son of a bitch. What else was I supposed to do? Live my life without sex? As a husband, you haven’t touched me in years. YEARS! So, yeah, no wonder I had to seek affection from other men.”
“Let us not kid ourselves. Your infidelity began long before I withdrew from our marriage bed. I tolerated our relations for the first two years in hopes of fathering our child, but once it became apparent that was an impossibility for me, I did not see the point in continuing,” I say, going to great lengths to keep all trace of emotion off my face.
Securing a legacy through an heir is the only valuable lesson my parents impressed on me.
In truth, having a child has always been my most closely held dream.
Having someone pure to care for, someone not poisoned by this tainted world.
To love them in a way I haven’t experienced myself.
My parents never loved me, but I am convinced the ability to do so is inherent in me.
Loving a child is probably the only love I am capable of.
After a couple of years of trying, both Filippa and I got tested.
The issue lay with me. My sperm were worthless, and the chances of my wife conceiving were practically zero.
Was this a punishment from God? Retribution for all the terrible things I’ve done to build my empire?
Possibly. But one thing I know for sure is that the shit I did before pales in comparison to the despicable things I’m guilty of these days.
To everything that has dirtied my hands since then.
Perhaps, before, I still had a shred of decency in me.
But not after. Not since I was told I could never father a child of my own.
“All you ever wanted from me was a kid,” Filippa shrieks. “Nothing else. Just a screaming, smelly, needy thing that would make my tits sag and ruin my body! An heir to continue your mighty Ruffo line. I should’ve got one of my lovers to knock me up and simply claimed the brat was yours.”
I let out a long sigh. How unexpected. “There are paternity tests, Filippa. I would have insisted on one.”
“I’m sure you would have, with your smug, know-it-all, pompous attitude.
God forbid your money ends up with a kid from the wrong side of the sheets.
” Spit flies from her mouth as she raves at me.
“As if setting an expiry date on our marriage at the very beginning wasn’t enough, you couldn’t even pretend to love me in front of everyone we know. ”
“Why would I? Our marriage is nothing but a business arrangement. You were aware of that from the start. I never promised you anything different. Never led you to believe anything otherwise. If you were so unhappy with that agreement, you could have filed for divorce at any time.”
She narrows her eyes at me, then looks away.
“Not something you could permit yourself, though. Not if it meant you’d be left penniless and lose all the benefits being my wife had brought you. What would your dear friends think of you then?”
“I fucking hate you!” she yells. “I hated you from the moment we met. Loathe your aristocratic air, that overly courteous manner. As if your stupid civility makes you better than everybody else.” Her lips pull into a sneer.
“Well, let me tell you—it doesn’t! You disgust me.
The only good thing about you is your money!
I should have hired a hitman to kill you right after we got married instead of spending a miserable decade with you! ”
“Perhaps you should have. Had you succeeded, you would be a very wealthy woman now.” Instead, she was reduced to whoring herself to an imbecile, whose plan was to have her position me in front of a window to which he would have a clear line of sight from the parking lot.
“I still have time before the term expires.” She grins, reaching into her purse. “I’ll just have to do it myself.” She pulls out a small revolver, and the look on her face as she aims the weapon at my head is one of pure triumph.
I raise a brow. “Really? How exactly are you going to explain my dead body in Brio’s library?”
“Don’t you worry. Brio’s gardener will lend me a hand getting rid of it. He’d do anything for me after I fucked him.”
The gardener, as well? Why am I not surprised?
“Put the gun away, Filippa. Go home. Pack your things and leave.”
“And why in the hell would I do that?”
“Because, if you pull that trigger, I will have to kill you.”
“You?” She laughs. “How? Even if I miss at this range, which isn’t likely, what are you going to do?
Wrestle the weapon away from me and shoot?
You don’t even know how to handle a gun!
Oh boy, I can’t wait to play the weeping widow at your funeral.
” Glee radiates from her eyes. “Bye-bye, dear husband.”
Click.
Filippa blinks, then pulls the trigger again. And again. And again. Nothing but hollow clicks ensue.