Chapter 6
"WHERE IS MY WIFE?" Ethan repeated, his voice cracking, entirely unable to maintain the facade of the feared, untouchable syndicate boss. The desperation in his tone was raw and bleeding.
A heavy silence followed his outburst. It wasn't the silence of defiance from his assistant; it was the silence of a tragedy that had already fully played out without him.
Ethan tightened his grip on the phone, his breathing becoming incredibly shallow. The magnificent marble foyer, usually a testament to his immense wealth and power, suddenly felt like a massive, empty cage. The visible black tattoos across his neck and chest felt like brands of his own selfishness.
"Mr. Blackwood," Michael said softly, breaking the agonizing silence. "She spent the last three days handling the coroner, the morgue, and the estate lawyers completely by herself."
"Why didn't anyone find me?" Ethan demanded, a pathetic, desperate attempt to shift the blame away from his own betrayal. "You have emergency protocols, Michael! You have men who know how to track my secure lines!"
"You ordered a total blackout, sir," Michael reminded him, his professional voice tinged with a quiet, undeniable judgment. "You explicitly threatened to kill any man who interrupted your... private retreat. We assumed it was syndicate business. By the time I realized you were unreachable for a personal matter, the weekend was over."
Ethan closed his eyes, a sickening wave of nausea washing over him. The reality of his absolute arrogance was suffocating. He had built a fortress of isolation to hide his infidelity, and in doing so, he had locked out the only person who actually needed him.
"I need to speak to her," Ethan pleaded, his American accent slurring slightly with panic. He began pacing the foyer again, his polished shoes clicking frantically against the stone. "Get her on the line, Michael. Patch me through to her encrypted phone. I don't care if she's in the air, hack the damn airline comms!"
"She left her encrypted phone on the kitchen counter, sir," Michael replied quietly. "She didn't want to be tracked. She only took her civilian passport and her father's ashes."
"Her father's ashes?" Ethan stopped pacing, his heart dropping into his stomach. The timeline was moving too fast. "Michael, you said he died on Thursday. Today is Sunday. That’s too soon. What about the wake? What about the funeral?"
May you like
Ethan imagined the grand, sprawling mafia funerals he was accustomed to—hundreds of cars, massive floral arrangements, a display of power and solidarity.
"There was no wake, sir," Michael said, delivering the next devastating blow.
