Matteo

“The plan failed.”

Mother’s sitting in the parlor like she’s announcing the weather instead of the complete destruction of my last chance at salvaging this clusterfuck of a marriage.

“Failed how?”

“Your wife is alive. Safe. And probably planning seventeen different ways to have us all killed.” Bianca’s lounging on the velvet couch, examining her manicure like we’re discussing weekend brunch plans instead of kidnapping and attempted murder.

“Castellano was supposed to handle it.”

“Castellano’s an idiot who underestimated Adrian Vasquez.” Mother’s voice could cut diamond. “Apparently your wife’s boyfriend has connections we didn’t account for.”

Boyfriend. The word tastes like battery acid mixed with broken glass.

“He’s not her boyfriend.”

“Please.” Bianca’s laugh could power a small generator. “Have you seen the way they look at each other? She’s probably fucking him while carrying your child.”

“Shut up.”

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

Yeah. It really fucking does.

“The rescue was military precision,” Mother continues, because apparently my humiliation needs detailed analysis. “Professional. Coordinated. Either Adrian is much more than Lord Ferdinand’s driver, or—”

“Or what?”

“Or we severely miscalculated who we’re dealing with.”

Great. Just fucking great. I orchestrated the kidnapping of a woman who’s apparently under the protection of someone with serious firepower, and now I’m sitting here listening to my mother dissect exactly how spectacularly I’ve fucked up my own life.

“She’ll divorce me now,” I mutter.

“She was already divorcing you,” Bianca points out helpfully. “This just gave her more ammunition.”

“Thank you for that insight.”

“You’re welcome.”

“There’s only one way to secure the future of this family,” Mother says finally.

“Which is?”

“Your father needs to die.”

The words hit the room like a bomb going off in a library. Dead silence, except for the ticking of the antique clock that’s been counting down to family disasters for three generations.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Mother’s voice doesn’t change tone. “Your father’s will leaves everything to you, but only if you’re married. If you’re divorced, Bianca gets nothing. The family business goes to distant cousins. We lose everything.”

“So we make sure I don’t get divorced.”

“We tried that. It didn’t work.”

“So we—”

“So we accelerate your inheritance.” Bianca’s sitting up now, eyes bright with the kind of excitement that usually precedes someone getting murdered. “Daddy dies of natural causes. You inherit everything. Divorce or no divorce, we’re covered.”

“Natural causes?”

“Heart attack. Very sad. Very believable, given his age and stress levels.”

“You want me to kill our father.”

“I want you to secure our future,” Mother corrects.

The logic is twisted but perfect. But it’s still patricide.

“How?”

“Digitalis. Undetectable. Mimics heart failure perfectly.” Mother produces a small vial from her purse like she’s been carrying around murder for casual Tuesday conversations. “Two drops in his evening whiskey. He goes to sleep and doesn’t wake up.”

I stare at the vial. It’s smaller than I expected. Amazing how something so tiny can end a life, destroy a legacy, change everything.

“The divorce papers arrived this morning,” I say instead of taking the poison.

“Sign them.”

“What?”

“Sign them. Let her think she’s won.” Mother’s smile could freeze hell.

“You want me to kill Father so I can inherit everything.”

“I want you to think strategically instead of emotionally.”

***

The divorce papers are sitting on the coffee table like a death certificate for my marriage. Forty-seven pages of legal language that essentially say “you fucked up so badly that the state of New York agrees you don’t deserve happiness.”

I sign them.

All of them. Every page, every initial, every place that requires acknowledgment that I’m officially the biggest failure in family history.

“Good,” Mother says, taking the papers. “Now finish what we started.”

Father’s in his study, reading financial reports like they contain the secrets of the universe. He looks older tonight. Frailer. Old age is eating him alive, and we all know it.

“Drink?” I ask, pouring two glasses of his favorite whiskey.

“Since when do you join me for drinks?”

“Since I got divorced.”

“Morbid but accurate.”

I add the digitalis to his glass. Two drops, clear as water, disappearing into the amber liquid like they were never there.

“To family,” I say, raising my glass.

“To family,” he agrees.

We both lift our glasses. His reaches his lips first, and I’m watching my father prepare to drink his own death, courtesy of his loving son.

That’s when his eyes open. Not just open—focus. Sharp, alert, nothing like the tired old man he’s been pretending to be.

He sets down the glass without drinking and looks at me with an expression I haven’t seen since I was twelve and got caught stealing from the collection plate.

“I knew your mother was a whore.”

And then—deliberately, almost lazily—he takes a sip.

My blood turns to ice.

He sets the glass down with a soft clink, never breaking eye contact.

“Cheers, boy.”