I turned, hailed a black car from the line of Family-approved drivers waiting near the Social Club, and directed him to take me to the airport.
The announcement echoed through the private terminal, crackling through speakers that had seen better decades.
"Passengers traveling to America, please proceed to Gate T1 for check-in."
My phone buzzed one final time.
Another message from him.
Isabella. I think you owe Massima an apology.
I stared at the screen.
Three years.
Three years of silence. Of neglect. Of watching him pour every ounce of devotion he possessed into the memory of a woman who had abandoned him—while I stood beside him, invisible, bleeding out slowly from wounds he refused to acknowledge.
And now, at the end of everything, his final words to me were a demand that I apologize to her.
I didn't hesitate.
Blocked. Deleted.
I handed my identification documents to the security officer—passport, visa papers, the dissolution decree that marked the official end of my time as a Volpe.
The woman glanced at my information. Looked up. Her eyes flickered to the date on the decree.
"Dissolved today?"
I checked my luggage, straightened my coat, and met her gaze with a small, sharp smile.