Chapter 8
The devastating truth of Michael’s words echoed in Ethan’s mind. She was already alone. The magnificent marble foyer, the expensive tailored clothes, the immense wealth he had provided her—none of it mattered when she was standing in a funeral home by herself.
Panic, absolute and unfiltered, seized Ethan’s chest. The feared mob boss was suddenly acting like a drowning man thrashing for a lifeline.
"Call the aviation director," Ethan ordered, his voice rapid and desperate, desperately trying to construct a plan. "Tell them to prep my private jet. Have the pilots ready for takeoff in thirty minutes. I will fly to Seattle. I’ll beat her commercial flight there. I can intercept her at the gate."
"Mr. Blackwood, I strongly advise against—"
"Do not advise me, Michael!" Ethan yelled, the panic driving his volume up. "Call the damn pilots! Tell them to file a flight plan for Seattle-Tacoma! I will not let her walk out of that airport alone. I have to explain. I have to apologize."
"And what exactly are you going to explain, sir?" Michael asked, his voice chillingly calm. "Are you going to tell her you were in a communications blackout for syndicate security? Because she isn't stupid, Ethan. She knows you weren't working."
Ethan froze, his hand tightening around his black leather belt. "What did you say?"
"I said she knows," Michael replied evenly. "I didn't tell her. I covered for you, just like I always do. But she is an intelligent woman. She spent three days sitting in an empty house waiting for her husband, and she had a lot of time to put the pieces together."
Ethan felt the blood drain from his face. The light stubble on his jaw bristled as he gritted his teeth. "You don't know what she knows."
"I know she packed a single bag," Michael countered. "I know she left her wedding ring on your desk. And I know she left a message for you."
Ethan’s heart stopped. The mention of the wedding ring was a physical blow that buckled his knees. He staggered slightly, his black tailored trousers brushing against the marble console table. He reached out with his free hand, gripping the edge of the stone table to keep himself upright.
"A message?" Ethan breathed, his voice barely audible. "She left a message with you?"
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"Yes, sir," Michael said. "She called me right before she boarded the plane. She was very calm. She didn't cry. She didn't sound angry."
"What did she say, Michael?" Ethan begged, the powerful man entirely stripped of his pride. "Tell me what my wife said."
