Marco continued, his tone carefully neutral—the voice of a soldier delivering orders he had not been asked to question.
"Don Nico wanted me to tell you that he's already arranged for you to see a specialist in England—a surgeon who works on hand bone and muscle repair. He'll have everything set up for your treatment and recovery."
A pause.
"Also, he's transferred another twenty million to your account. For living expenses. Medical costs. Whatever you need."
I held the phone in my left hand—my good hand—while my right gripped the handle of my luggage. The leather bit into the ridges of scar tissue that would never fully heal.
The refusal rose to my lips.
I don't want your money. I don't want your guilt offerings. I don't want anything that carries the weight of the Volpe name.
Then I looked up.
Across the street.
In an open-air café bathed in afternoon light.
Nico and Massima.
Sitting together.
Laughing.
She ducked her head, that practiced gesture of feminine softness she had perfected over years of manipulation. Her smile was demure, calculated—the expression of a woman who knew exactly how to make powerful men feel like protectors.
And Nico—