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“Thanks,” I mutter. “Matteo will reach out to you about-”

I don’t get to finish before the door swings open. One of my guards steps in.

“It’s just a mail courier, boss,” he says.

I frown. “Let him in.”

The guard pulls the door open, and a mailman steps inside, eyes darting nervously between me and the armed presence at his side. He swallows hard, fumbling into his satchel before pulling out the envelope.

“Delivery for, um, Nicolas Paolo,” he announces, trying to sound professional, but the slight quiver in his voice betrays him. He knows who I am. Or maybe it’s just the weight of the room pressing down on him.

I barely register his unease—my attention is locked onto the envelope. Thick. Cream-colored. A legal firm’s logo printed neatly in the corner.

I take it from his hands, and he steps back quickly, like he can’t get rid of it fast enough. “Sign here, please,” he says, offering a clipboard and pen.

I scrawl my name without looking, my eyes never leaving that envelope.

The mailman murmurs a quick thanks before turning on his heel and bolting from the room. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

I just stare at the envelope in my hands for a long moment. My name is printed in crisp black ink across the front. And below it-

Aria’s name.

Her maiden name.

And the name of her family’s lawyer.

The guard and Enzo step out, leaving me alone with the envelope that suddenly feels heavier in my hands.

I slide my fingers under the sealed flap, tearing it open with deliberate slowness. The crisp paper inside rustles as I unfold it, my eyes scanning the first line.

And then I see it.

Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

29

ARIA

The midday sun casts a golden glow over the crowded playground. Laughter fills the air, echoing against the worn walls of the old community center as children race across the yard, their energy boundless.

I stand behind a table near the entrance, handing out steaming bowls of soup and freshly baked bread. Today marks the official opening of my foundation—a dream I’ve nurtured for years. A place where children, especially those who have lost parents to violence, can find safety, warmth, and a moment of peace.

A small boy, no older than five, steps forward, his cheeks smudged with dirt. He clutches a piece of bread to his chest, his eyes wide with something between hunger and gratitude.

“Can I share with my sister?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I crouch to meet his gaze, offering him another piece. “You can share as much as you want.”

A girl, timid and quiet, peeks out from behind him. She clings to his shirt as though it’s the only thing keeping her steady. When he turns to her, offering half of what he holds, her face softens with relief,

Hand in hand, they dart away, their bond unbreakable.

I swallow against the lump in my throat. I wish my brother had cared about me like that.

But you had someone who cared about you even more.

I spend the next hour making sure every child gets enough to eat. My volunteers move through the crowd with tired but determined faces, following the plan we carefully laid out for today. There’s a bit of chaos—the kind that comes with excited kids—but everything runs smoothly.