Chapter 1 - My Wife Never Met You
My name is Victor Moretti.
People had been afraid of me for most of my adult life.
Some because of my surname.
Some because of stories.
Some because they had met me.
None of that mattered when I walked onto the terrace of my home and saw my eight-year-old daughter lying on the grass.
It was late afternoon.
Summer.
Bright sky.
Long tables covered in white linen.
Music from a quartet near the fountain.
Champagne for adults.
Lemonade for children.
Ellie’s birthday garden party had taken over the south lawn.
She wore a pastel-blue dress and cardigan.
Her hair had been tied with a ribbon she complained was:
“too fancy.”
Twenty minutes earlier she had been laughing on a decorative wooden swing beneath an old oak tree.
Now she was on the ground.
And Celina Graves stood above her.
Emerald summer gown.
Heels.
Bracelet.
The kind of immaculate appearance that made cruelty look almost elegant from a distance.
I had not seen what happened.
Others had.
Later they described it.
Celina walked behind Ellie.
Grabbed one of the swing ropes.
Jerked it hard sideways.
Ellie lost balance and fell onto the grass.
No broken bone.
No serious head injury.
But she landed hard enough to cry.
A small gift box fell beside her.
Celina planted one heel on it.
The lid collapsed.
Then she laughed.
“Even your gifts know you’re replaceable.”
That was when I stepped onto the terrace.
I saw Ellie.
Everything else disappeared.
I went down the steps.
Fast.
Not running wildly.
I had learned long ago that panic wastes motion.
“Who touched my daughter?”
People moved out of my way.
Ellie looked up.
Tears streaked her cheeks.
She held the crushed gift box against her chest.
Then pointed toward Celina.
“She said Daddy needs a better daughter.”
I crouched.
Checked Ellie’s head.
Arms.
Hands.
“Anywhere hurt?”
“My hip.”
“Head?”
“No.”
“Can you stand?”
She nodded.
I helped her up.
Then looked at one of my security men.
“Anthony.”
He came immediately.
“Stay with her.”
Ellie grabbed my sleeve.
“Daddy.”
“I’m right here.”
I placed her carefully behind Anthony.
Then walked toward Celina.
She did not move.
That irritated me more.
No apology.
No fear.
No explanation.
Just that superior half-smile.
I stopped in front of her.
“Did you throw her off that swing?”
Celina tilted her head.
“She needs to learn that this family will not always bend around her.”
My control disappeared.
One open-handed slap.
Hard.
Celina spun sideways.
Her shoulder struck one of the swing ropes.
She crashed backward against the wooden seat and stumbled onto the grass.
Silence swallowed the party.
I did not hit her again.
I did not move toward her.
That distinction would matter later.
Celina slowly stood.
One hand pressed against her cheek.
Then something strange happened.
She smiled.
Not embarrassment.
Not shock.
Venom.
“Ask your wife why she chose me.”
My hand lowered.
Sofia.
My wife.
Dead three years.
I stared at Celina.
“What did you say?”
“Ask her.”
“My wife is dead.”
“I know.”
“She never met you.”
Celina’s smile widened.
I took one step closer.
May you like
My voice became almost quiet.
“My wife never met you.”
