They arrived in a plain manila envelope, hand-delivered by a man I'd never seen before who rang the bell, handed it to me without a word, and disappeared into a waiting sedan. No return address. No firm name on the cover letter. The fixer understood what he was dealing with. You don't send certified mail to a Moretti address. You don't leave a paper trail that the Family's consigliere might intercept before the wife ever sees it.
I sat at the kitchen table and read every page. The legalese was dense, but the architecture was clean. Grounds for severance. Division of assets limited to what I could prove was legitimately earned, which wasn't much, because in this family, legitimacy was a performance. No claim on Moretti holdings. No claim on territory. No alimony. I wasn't negotiating for money. I was negotiating for the right to leave alive and whole, with my name and my child and nothing else.
I printed them out. Signed my name. Olivia Ferraro. Not Moretti. Ferraro. The pen didn't shake.
Then I started packing.