The Santoro mansion sits heavy in the night. The basement is silent, except for Alessia's ragged gasps as she's strapped to the torture chair — the woman who had once been his closest confidant. She betrayed him; the lie about his wife was unforgivable. He knows he will never forgive himself for what he put his wife through, but make no mistake — Alessia will not survive. Not after she made his woman suffer.

"She's gone. Are you happy now? You got what you always wanted," he says, voice flat, the echo of the gunmetal barrel steady in his palm. "Only thing is — you'll have to pay a small price."

He presses the muzzle to her forehead, watching the fear thin and the tremor in her eyes. Alessia scrambles for words, voice a raw whisper. "I didn't know—it was sent to me by someone else, Matteo. Please, I swear—" Tears streak down her face as she claws at the straps. Matteo's expression doesn't change. "I already looked into everything. You're the only one responsible."

She begs louder, voice breaking, but he answers with cold indifference. He lifts the pistol, aims, and the shot cracks through the stillness. Alessia goes limp in the chair. Matteo steps forward, methodical, collecting papers from the small night table, folding them with practised hands as if closing a file. He moves toward the stairs without looking back.

At the doorway he calls to the men waiting outside, voice steady: "Clean it. Make sure nothing is left."

Matteo stepped out of the mansion, the night air thick against his skin, heavy with the scent of gasoline and smoke that clung to him. His shoes clicked sharply against the stone driveway as he approached his obsidian Maserati GranTurismo, polished to a sheen reflecting the dim light. He opened the door with a violent jerk, sliding inside, movements stiff with fury.

On the passenger seat, he tossed crumpled divorce papers — the last bitter gift his wife had left before walking away. He hadn't signed them. He never would. The engine roared to life with a deep growl, echoing through the quiet night as he pressed down on the accelerator.

Finally, he pulled up to a modest house on the edge of the city. Smaller, humbler than his mansion, but neat, cared for, alive in a way his home never was. He killed the engine, silence descending like a hammer, and stepped out.

Matteo's dark silhouette cut across the glow of the porch light as he approached. Every step was deliberate, heavy, dragging the weight of regret. He paused at the door, hand hovering over the handle for a moment, studying the place that now sheltered her from him.

Matteo raised his hand and knocked—once, twice, then harder, the sound echoing in the quiet night like a warning. "Open the door. I need to talk to you."

Silence. The porch light buzzed softly above him. He exhaled sharply, jaw tight, striking the door again with the side of his fist. "Open up!"

He leaned his forehead against the door, swallowing the dry ache in his throat. Everything inside him—the cold, the cruelty, the control—was gone, replaced by a hollow ache. "Please..."

Then the lock clicked. The door creaked open, just enough for her face to appear in the gap. For a heartbeat Matteo froze, the sight of her hitting him like a gunshot.

"Please," he said, tone raw, stripped of arrogance. "I know I hurt you. I doubted you. I let myself believe lies and I destroyed everything we had..."

"Please forgive me, my love," he whispered, dark eyes glistening. "Let's start over. Come back to me. I'll fix everything. Just... come home."