Chapter 1

Don Carlo was a dyed-in-the-wool conservative who despised violence. Me? I grew up with gunfire and bullets as my lullabies.

The only reason he'd handed me divorce papers in the first place was because I'd dragged him along when we jumped from a shipping container down at the docks.

But that was before I came across photos of him at the shooting range—with his female subordinate. An assassin.

I had my people dig deeper. Hundreds of photos came back. Every single one of them featured the same woman: Valentina.

On our anniversary, he said he was too swamped to come home and celebrate.

Because Valentina's mission had gone sideways that day, and he was busy comforting her.

On Christmas, I asked him to make time to visit my parents with me. He begged off, saying he had urgent family matters to attend to.

Because he felt bad for Valentina—alone in a foreign country with no one to spend the holidays with.

I flipped through the photos, my fingers going numb.

One intimate shot after another.

There she was, leaning against his shoulder while eating cake. There he was, cleaning her gun for her. There they were, sitting side by side on the steps, sharing a cigarette.

Then a hesitant voice cut through beside me.

"Madam, Don Carlo might still be busy in there—today's Valentina's mission debriefing. Perhaps... you could wait a little longer?"

I rose to my feet.

"No need. Tell Don Carlo he'd better get ready to sign divorce papers."

Back at the apartment, I went straight to the master bedroom on the second floor and started packing.

I set the signed divorce agreement on the nightstand—and looked up into a pair of jet-black eyes.

Carlo's gaze dropped to the two suitcases beside me, and his brow furrowed.

"I had a debriefing with the men at noon. I had to be there. Couldn't get away. And now you're upset again?"

I didn't answer. I grabbed my suitcases and headed for the door.

But he held them in place.

"Isabella. Say something."

I stayed silent.

He looked at me calmly, like I was a child throwing a tantrum. "When are you going to break that infuriating habit of going mute every time you get angry?"

When I couldn't tug the suitcases free, I let out a breath, straightened up, and said, "I want a divorce."

"On what grounds?"

"You cheated on me. Isn't that enough?"

I brushed his hand aside and started for the door with my luggage.

But he stopped me again.

"Isabella, can we not do this? There's only you. No one else."

"Oh, really?"

I pulled out the stack of photos. "Then who's this?"

In the photos, they stood side by side at the shooting range, his hand over hers as he corrected her grip. Crystal clear.

"You told me you were afraid of heights and hated guns. So how come that fear magically disappears when you're with her?"

"Tell me why."

I kept my voice as steady as I could.

"Isabella. You had me investigated?"

No apology. No admission. No explanation.

Just an accusation.

"Shouldn't you start by explaining this?"

He tugged at his tie, agitated, and let out a long breath.

"Her name's Valentina. She's one of my soldiers. The kid's last mission went sideways, she's been in a bad place mentally, so I took her to the range."

"That's all."

"Carlo. Do you even believe that yourself?"

One photo could be written off.

But a hundred of them? How was he going to talk his way out of that?

He fell silent.

I grabbed my suitcases again. He spoke.

"Where are you going?"

"To my parents'. For a while."

He said nothing.

I'd reached the door when he finally said, "Give me some time. I'll sort this out as soon as I can."

I didn't look back. I walked out.

When I got home, I didn't tell my parents about the divorce.

I just made up an excuse—said he'd been buried in work and I didn't want to stay alone, so I'd come back to stay a while.

Luckily, they didn't press.

The next day, I went to the family warehouse to take inventory as usual. But there was someone waiting at the entrance.

Valentina.

She looked exactly like she did in the photos. All in black.

A little nervous.

I walked past her and unlocked the door. She stopped me. "You must be Isabella."

I didn't answer.

She pressed on. "I need to talk to you about something. Can we?"

She wore an innocent look.

In the end, I let her in.

She sat across from me, fidgeting, and started going on about Don Carlo.

"Did he send you?" I asked.

She lifted her chin, stubborn. "No. I came on my own."

"Leave. This is between him and me. I've got nothing to say to you."

I stood up to get back to work.

She shot up too.

"Miss Isabella, believe me or not—there's nothing going on between Don Carlo and me. I was just upset that day and begged him to take me to the range. It was all a misunderstanding."

"A misunderstanding?"

I laughed. I pulled the stack of photos from the drawer and slapped them onto the table.

"Are all these hundred-odd photos a misunderstanding too?"

Valentina went speechless.

I brushed past her hand.

"If you're here to be an assassin, then be an assassin. Don't try sleazy backdoor tricks to climb the ladder."

Her face turned pale, her eyes glistening like she'd burst into tears any second.

She spun around and ran out.