26. Massimo
MASSIMO
I came straight from the airport to Padre Ignazio's church in the city. The old stone building sat on a quiet corner, half-hidden behind a row of cypresses.
The church door was unlocked when I tried it.
I stepped inside and let my eyes adjust to the dim light.
The smell of incense and old wood filled my lungs, familiar and heavy.
Padre Ignazio was at the altar, arranging candles in a row.
He looked up when he heard my footsteps echoing across the stone floor.
"Massimo." He didn't sound surprised. "I wondered when you'd come."
I crossed the aisle and stopped a few feet from him. My throat felt tight, but I forced the words out. "I need you to look at something."
He set the candle down carefully and wiped his hands on his cassock. "All right."
I had the folder tucked under my arm. I pulled it out and handed it to him.
My hand was steady, which was a small miracle considering how badly I wanted to punch something.
Anything. Padre Ignazio took the folder and opened it with the kind of care you'd use handling something fragile.
Inside were the documents Rosaria had kept hidden — photographs, receipts, a handwritten ledger in Enzo's writing, and invoices from Signor Greco's man.
Padre Ignazio pulled the first page out and held it up to the light from the stained glass window.
A photograph. He studied it without speaking, then set it aside and reached for the next item.
A receipt. His eyes moved across the page slowly, carefully, taking in every detail.
Then another photograph. Then an invoice.
I stood there and watched him, my stomach in knots.
The silence stretched out between us like a live wire.
He moved through the contents methodically, turning each page with deliberate slowness.
A handwritten ledger in Enzo's unmistakable scrawl.
More receipts. More invoices. Each item seemed to weigh heavier in his hands than the last.
I wanted to tell him to hurry up, to just say it so I could move on to the next step, but I kept my mouth shut.
This wasn't something you rushed. Padre Ignazio had known me since I was a child.
He'd prepared me for my first communion in this church.
He'd heard my confessions. He deserved time to see what my family had done.
Finally, he looked up. His face had gone pale. "Where did you get these?"
"Rosaria," I said. "My father's sister. She kept them safe."
He studied my face for a long moment, like he was trying to read something there. Something that would tell him this wasn't real, that there had to be some other explanation. But whatever he saw there only seemed to confirm what the documents had already told him.
He returned his attention to the folder and went through the contents again, this time checking dates and cross-referencing one item against another.
The photograph against the invoice. The receipt against the ledger.
I watched his expression shift as he pieced it together.
His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek.
His shoulders went rigid, the way they did when he was trying to contain anger during a sermon about injustice.
When he set the papers down on the altar, he did it with the kind of care you'd use handling a loaded gun. His hands were shaking.
The silence that followed felt thick enough to choke on.
Padre Ignazio stood there with his head bowed, staring at the papers spread across the altar like evidence at a trial.
I could see him working through it, weighing the implications, understanding what it meant that these documents existed.
That Rosaria had held onto them. That I was standing here now, asking him to bear witness.
He drew in a slow breath and let it out. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady.
"The first marriage stands," he said.
I felt something loosen in my chest. Not relief — I wasn't done yet, nowhere close — but at least I had the truth in the open now. At least someone other than me and Rosaria knew what my family had done. I swallowed hard and nodded.
"And the second?" I asked.
"Void." He paused, then looked at me with something like pity in his eyes. "The dissolution was granted on false grounds. The petition rested on a lie. Your mother knew this, Massimo. Your brother. Signor Greco. They all knew what they were doing."
"Yeah." My voice came out rough. "I know."
He folded the papers carefully and slid them back into the folder. Then he held it out to me. "What will you do now?"
"Clear her name," I said, taking it. "Tell everyone the truth."
"And then?"
I didn't answer. I wasn't ready to think that far ahead. One step at a time — that was all I could manage right now without completely losing my mind. I tucked the folder back under my arm and turned toward the door.
"Massimo."
I stopped.
"This won't be easy," Padre Ignazio said. His voice was gentle, but there was steel underneath it. "The family won't forgive what you're about to do."
I looked back at him over my shoulder. "I'm not asking for forgiveness."
Outside, the sun was too bright. I squinted against it and headed for the car I'd left parked down the street.
My hands were shaking now, adrenaline kicking in.
The next part was going to be harder. Padre Ignazio was one thing — he was a priest, he dealt in truth.
The people I needed to see next weren't going to take it as calmly.
My next stop was a public room in the city, a place my family had used for years to host gatherings, announce alliances, settle disputes.
Neutral ground, more or less. I'd sent word ahead that I needed to see the people my family had told about the so-called affair.
I hadn't asked them to come. I hadn't used the family's name to summon them.
I'd just said I had something to say, and that they should come if they wanted to hear it.
Most of them came. I wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.
The room was plain — wood floors, high ceilings, a long table in the center surrounded by mismatched chairs. I got there early and stood by the window, watching people arrive.
Signora Mancini came first, her face carefully blank.
She'd been friends with my mother for decades.
She paused in the doorway, scanning the room like she was looking for someone else, then moved to a chair near the far end of the table.
She didn't look at me. Behind her came Don Salvatore, one of the old guard, his cane tapping against the floor with each slow step.
He nodded once in my direction but didn't speak.
His eyes were sharp, taking everything in.
Then a few younger members of allied families, men and women I'd grown up seeing at weddings and funerals.
A cousin from one of the allied families.
A woman and her husband. A man whose name I couldn't remember but whose face I knew from a dozen family gatherings over the years.
They filed in one by one, their expressions wary, their movements cautious.
Nobody knew why they were here, but they'd come anyway.
Probably because turning down an invitation from a Lombardo — even one who wasn't speaking for the family anymore — was a risk most people wouldn't take.
I watched them take their seats. Some sat close to the table, leaning forward like they wanted to be ready for whatever was coming.
Others hung back, keeping distance between themselves and the center of the room.
A few exchanged glances with each other, silent questions passing between them.
What is this about? Why are we here? The tension in the room built with each new arrival, a low hum of uncertainty and unease.
Laney wasn't among them. I scanned the room twice just to be sure, even though I already knew she wouldn't be here. She was in Rome with Sofia, and that was where she should stay until I'd finished what I'd started. Until I'd cleared her name and undone as much of the damage as I could.
When everyone had taken a seat, I moved to the head of the table. The room went quiet. I could feel their eyes on me, curious and wary and maybe a little afraid. My pulse kicked up, but I forced myself to stay steady. I set the folder down on the table in front of me and took a breath.
"You were told that my wife had an affair," I said. My voice sounded steadier than I felt, which was something. "That she betrayed me, and that the marriage was over. You were told this by my family."
Nobody said anything. A few of them shifted in their seats. Signora Mancini's hands were folded tightly in her lap.
"It was a lie," I continued. "All of it.
There was no affair. Laney didn't betray me.
The whole thing was fabricated by my mother, my brother Enzo, and Signor Greco.
They wanted to end my marriage to Laney so they could arrange a different match.
They spread the lie to make it real, and you all believed it because why wouldn't you? It came from the Lombardos."
The words hung in the air. I watched them land. Signora Mancini's eyes went wide. The woman's hand went to her mouth. Someone in the back let out a sharp breath. For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody spoke. They just sat there, processing what I'd said, working through the implications.
Don Salvatore leaned forward, his knuckles white on the head of his cane. "That's a serious accusation, Massimo."
"It's the truth," I said. I tapped the folder with two fingers.
"I have proof. The dissolution of my marriage to Laney was granted on fabricated evidence.
Padre Ignazio confirmed it. The petition rested on a lie, which means the first marriage stands.
The ceremony my family arranged after that — it doesn't count.
It was void from the start, because I was already married. "
Signora Mancini's hand went to her throat. "You're saying Costanza lied to all of us? To everyone?"
"Yeah." I met her eyes. "That's exactly what I'm saying."
The room erupted. Everyone started talking at once, voices rising and overlapping.
Signora Mancini's voice cut through the noise, sharp and disbelieving.
Someone swore. Someone else demanded to see the proof.
Don Salvatore slammed his cane against the floor, the crack of it echoing off the high ceilings.
A younger man in the back stood up like he was going to leave, then sat back down when he realized everyone else was staying.
I let them go, let them throw their anger and confusion around the room.
They deserved it. They'd been used, same as Laney, same as me.
My family had turned them all into accomplices in something they never would have agreed to if they'd known the truth.
The noise swelled, voices layering over each other until individual words were lost in the chaos.
Accusations. Denials. Questions nobody had answers for.
When the noise finally started to die down, I raised my hand. The room quieted, but the tension didn't. It sat there between us, thick and volatile. I could see it in their faces — the anger, the betrayal, the dawning realization of what it meant that the Lombardos had lied to them all.
"The first marriage stands," I said. "Laney is my wife. She always has been. Anyone who spread the lie about her, anyone who treated her like she was guilty — you were lied to. She didn't do anything wrong. My mother, my brother, and Signor Greco made the whole thing up."
"And the family?" Don Salvatore's voice was hard now, all the careful neutrality gone. "What does Aurelio say about this?"
"I don't know," I admitted. My jaw felt tight. "I haven't spoken to him. I'm not here as his son right now. I'm here as Laney's husband."
That got their attention. You could have heard a pin drop.
In our world, separating yourself from the family name was as good as painting a target on your back.
You didn't break with the Lombardos and walk away clean.
But I was done playing by their rules. I was done letting them decide who got hurt and who got protected.
"I'm telling you this because you deserve to know the truth," I said. "What you do with it is your business. But Laney's name is cleared. The marriage stands. That's not up for debate."
I picked up the folder and walked out before anyone could ask another question.