Loving You at the Edge of Oblivion

The white lilies meant for the altar were still arriving when I authorized the total liquidation of the Rossi family’s assets. On the sixty-inch screen, the video looped—my fiancée in a mock veil, whispering vows to a nobody named Julian while my diamond weighed down her hand. I didn’t shout; I simply watched my men strip the penthouse of every silk thread she’d ever touched, bagging her life like refuse for the curb. By dawn, the wedding was an annulled corpse and her father’s protection was revoked. As Bella wails outside my door, begging for the man I used to be, I’m already straightening my tie for a meeting with Seraphina Falcone. I don’t feel betrayed; I feel the cold, clinical relief of a surgeon finally cutting out the rot. The Moretti name doesn't negotiate with traitors—it erases them.