Paris was raining. Of course it was raining.

I hated this city. It was a place built for poets and weak men, but Aria had insisted.

She claimed the doctors in Como were "scary." She said she needed the absolute best specialists in France to handle the "complication."

I watched her from the other side of the limo. She was scrolling mindlessly through Instagram, popping her gum with a rhythmic, wet smack.

She certainly didn't look like a woman who had nearly miscarried twins less than twenty-four hours ago.

"This hotel sucks," she said, not bothering to look up from her screen. "It's old."

"It's the Ritz, Aria," I snapped, my patience already fraying. "It's not old. It's historic."

We pulled up to the grand entrance, and the doorman stepped forward to open the door.

Aria stepped out, and I flinched. She was wearing velour sweatpants with the word JUICY emblazoned across the ass in glittering rhinestones.

The doorman sneered. I saw it instantly-a micro-expression of pure disgust.

I shoved a hundred-euro note into his gloved hand.

"Wipe that look off your face," I growled, my voice low and dangerous.

He paled and bowed deeply. "Yes, Monsieur."

We walked into the lobby. It was elegant, hushed, and smelling of expensive lilies. Then Aria's voice cut through the silence like a chainsaw.

"Oh my god, look at that chandelier! It's huge!"

She pointed a manicured finger upward. People turned to stare.

Heat crept up my neck. It wasn't desire. It was shame.

I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, and I saw Catarina.

She would have walked in here like she owned the deed to the building. She would have spoken flawless French to the concierge. She would have been invisible and unforgettable all at the same time.

"Alex!" Aria tugged sharply on my sleeve. "I'm hungry. I want a burger."

"We are in Paris, Aria," I said, pulling my arm away. "Eat a croissant."

I checked my phone. No texts.

I had messaged Cat the moment we landed: Landed safely. Meeting went long. Staying the night.

No reply.

Usually, she replied instantly. Okay. Be safe.

Today, nothing but a black screen.

Frowning, I dialed the penthouse landline.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

Maybe she was out. Maybe she was shopping.

I tried her cell next.

The automated voice was immediate and final: "We're sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

I stopped walking. The phone felt suddenly heavy, like a lead weight in my hand.

Disconnected? That was impossible. I paid the bill myself.

I tried again.

"No longer in service."

A cold drop of sweat rolled down my spine. It wasn't panic yet. It was just a vibration. A sense of wrongness.

I opened my email and typed a message to her secure private server.

Cat, call me. Phone isn't working.

I hit send.

Immediately, a notification popped up: Delivery Failure. Recipient Address Rejected.

Address rejected?

I stood frozen in the middle of the lobby. In the background, Aria was arguing loudly with the receptionist about the Wi-Fi password, but the sound seemed to come from underwater.

My world started to spin.

She hadn't just turned off her phone. She had deleted it. She had deleted the email. She had deleted... herself.

"Alex?" Aria whined. "Are you listening to me?"

I looked at her. Her mouth was moving, complaining about the thread count of the sheets, but I couldn't hear her.

All I could hear was the silence coming from New York. The deafening silence where my wife used to be.

I dialed the penthouse security desk.

"Pick up," I whispered roughly. "Pick up."

"Hello?" the guard answered.

"Is Mrs. DeLuca there?" I asked. My voice was tight, unfamiliar to my own ears.

"No, sir," the guard said.

"She left yesterday."

"Left?" I gripped the phone tighter. "Left where?"

"She took a bag, sir. She said she was going..."

"Going where?" I roared, causing heads to turn in the lobby.

"She didn't say, sir. But the cleaners came this morning."

"Cleaners?"

"Yes, sir. Don Donato sent them. They cleared out her closet."

The phone slipped from my hand. It hit the marble floor with a sharp crack.

Cleared out.

She wasn't shopping. She wasn't mad.

She was gone.

And for the first time in my life, I didn't know where my possession was.

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced my chest. It wasn't the fear of losing an asset.

It was the terror of a man waking up in a room with no doors.

Alexander DeLuca POV

Panic was a flavor I had never tasted before.

It coated my tongue, metallic and sharp, like copper mixed with ash.

I stood in the center of the hotel suite, the silence deafening.

My phone sat in my palm, a useless slab of glass and metal.

Disconnected. Wiped. Gone.

I dialed Marc immediately.

My fingers fumbled over the screen-a clumsy motion that shouldn't have been possible.

I was the Underboss of the New York families. I didn't fumble. I didn't panic.

But today, I did.

"Pick up," I snarled into the void.

Marc answered on the second ring.

"Boss?"

"Find her," I ordered, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "Track her jet. Track her credit cards. Find out where the hell she went."

There was a pause on the other end.

A long, heavy silence that vibrated with tension.

"Alex," Marc finally said.

His tone was careful. Too careful.

"I have orders from your father."

Ice flooded my veins.

"What orders?"

"Let her go."

I gripped the phone so hard the screen began to fracture under my thumb.

"What did you say?"

"Don Donato was clear," Marc insisted, though his voice wavered slightly. "She is safe. She is in Europe. You are to leave her alone. Do not disturb the peace."

I didn't bother responding.

I hurled the phone across the room.

It smashed into the antique mirror above the fireplace, shattering the reflection into a thousand jagged shards.

Glass rained down onto the plush carpet.

Aria screamed from the bedroom.

"Alex! What was that?"

I didn't answer.

My father knew.

He had helped her.

He had orchestrated my humiliation while I was busy playing house with a fraud.

I paced the room, my chest feeling as if it were being crushed by a hydraulic press.

She ran to him.

She trusted the old man who treated people like chess pieces over her own husband.

"Alex?"

Aria stood in the doorway, wrapped in a hotel bathrobe that was two sizes too big for her frame.

"I'm bored," she whined, leaning against the doorframe. "Can we go shopping? You promised me Chanel."

I stopped pacing and looked at her.

I really looked at her.

She was chewing gum with her mouth open, a rhythmic, wet sound that grated on my nerves.

Her hair was a tangled mess of extensions.

She looked cheap.

She looked like a grease stain on the pristine silk wallpaper of my life.

"Get dressed," I said, my voice dead.

"We're going out."

We went to Avenue Montaigne.

Aria ran into the store like a child unleashed in a candy shop.

She grabbed bags. She grabbed shoes.

She didn't look at the craftsmanship. She didn't check the cut or the stitching.

She only looked at the logos.

I sat on a velvet ottoman, watching her through narrowed eyes.

She tried on a tweed suit.

It was classic. It was elegant.

On Catarina, it would have looked like armor-sophisticated, untouchable.

On Aria, it looked like a costume.

It bunched at the shoulders. She didn't have the posture for it. She didn't have the grace.

"Do I look rich?" she asked, twirling around clumsily.

"You look expensive," I said flatly.

"There is a difference."

She didn't catch the insult.

She just giggled and handed the black card to the sales associate, oblivious.

We walked by the Seine afterward.

The water was grey and churning, matching the storm inside me.

Aria was complaining about her feet.

"These heels hurt," she grumbled, limping slightly. "Why do we have to walk? Can't we take the limo?"

I stopped walking.

I looked out at the river, ignoring her.

I remembered a trip here with Cat three years ago.

We had walked for hours.

She never complained.

She just pointed out the architecture, telling me the history of the bridges, making the city feel alive with her stories.

Aria made Paris feel like nothing more than a backdrop for a selfie.

My pocket buzzed.

It was Marc.

He had defied the Don.

He was loyal to me first.

Attachment: 1 Photo.

I opened it.

My heart stopped.

It was a surveillance shot, taken from across a street.

Catarina was sitting at a café table.

She was wearing a trench coat, her hair loose and blowing in the wind.

She was laughing.

Her head was thrown back, her eyes crinkled at the corners in genuine mirth.

I stared at the image, transfixed.

I tried to remember the last time I saw her laugh like that.

I couldn't.

She looked lighter. She looked free.

She looked beautiful.

And she was laughing with a woman I didn't know.

A dark jealousy coiled in my gut.

It was a snake, cold and venomous, striking at my pride.

She was happy.

Without me.

How dare she be happy?

I was miserable.

I was drowning in a sea of my own making.

And she was drinking espresso and laughing.

Two days later, another photo arrived.

This one was worse.

Cat was at the same café.

But the woman was gone.

A man was sitting across from her.

He was handsome in a rugged, artistic way-the complete opposite of me.

He wasn't wearing a suit. He was wearing a leather jacket.

He was leaning in.

He was smiling at her.

And she was smiling back.

I zoomed in on his face until the pixels blurred.

I wanted to reach through the screen and crush his skull.

"Who is he?" I whispered to the empty air.

"Why is he looking at my wife like that?"

Aria tugged on my arm, breaking my trance.

"Alex, look! A mime!"

I shoved her hand away violently.

The bird had flown the cage.

And she was singing a song I didn't know.