The Trophy Husband Who Lost Everything

The Cullinan I'd just had delivered lasted less than a day in the hands of Salvatore Vitale's little courier before she folded the front end into scrap. Totaled.

That made three cars this month.

I dropped the photos of the wreck onto the desk and looked coldly at Carmela Russo, hunched in the corner.

"I let the first two slide. This one didn't even have its papers squared away yet. So tell me—how exactly do you plan to pay for it?"

Her shoulders jerked, and the tears came at once.