Chapter 5 - ISABELLA TOLD ME THE TRUTH ABOUT OUR MARRIAGE, AND I REALIZED I HAD BEEN LOSING HER LONG BEFORE SHE DECIDED TO KILL ME
I saw Isabella three days later.
Not alone.
Her attorney sat beside her.
Mine sat beside me.
A federal prosecutor and Detective Hernandez occupied the other end of the room.
No family villa.
No private study.
No opportunity for either of us to rewrite what was said later.
She looked tired.
No makeup.
Hair tied back.
For nine years, Isabella had been beautiful with intention.
That day she looked human.
It was almost crueler.
She started:
“I’m sorry.”
I said nothing.
She looked at prosecutor.
Then back.
“I know that means nothing.”
Correct.
“Tell them what you know.”
I said.
Not:
Tell me why.
Because why belongs to emotions.
Evidence first.
She described Marco’s approach eighteen months earlier.
At a charity dinner.
I had left after twenty minutes for a port emergency.
Isabella stayed.
Marco stayed too.
He joked that she was “married to a ghost with bodyguards.”
She laughed.
That became conversations.
Then resentment.
I worked late.
Traveled.
Canceled vacations.
Controlled security.
Chose restaurants based on exits.
Made decisions about where she could go when threats increased.
Rarely asked.
I wanted to defend myself.
Didn’t.
Those things were true.
Then Marco introduced Stefano Bellini as a security consultant.
The fake Daniel.
Isabella began sleeping with him.
Months before murder plan.
She looked at me when she admitted it.
I felt nothing sharp.
Just sadness.
“Did Marco tell you to?”
“No.”
Good.
No outsourcing choice.
“Why him?”
She laughed bitterly.
“He looked at me like I existed.”
That hurt.
Not because she was justified.
Because I knew exactly how often I had failed to do that.
The prosecutor interrupted:
“Affair is not relevant unless connected to conspiracy.”
Good.
Keep room factual.
Isabella continued.
Stefano told her I planned to revise estate documents after Palermo.
False.
Marco showed her draft divorce filings.
Forged.
Emails from my attorney.
Fake.
Financial schedule showing Isabella’s lifestyle dropping dramatically.
Some real numbers.
Manipulated context.
Then Marco said I intended to leave her for a woman in Sicily.
Ridiculous.
She believed enough.
“Why didn’t you confront me?”
I asked.
The prosecutor looked at me but allowed.
Isabella stared.
“Would you have told me?”
I almost said yes.
Then stopped.
Would I?
If there were confidential strategic plans?
If I feared she might react?
I had spent years deciding what Isabella needed to know.
Her answer did not excuse attempted murder.
But it exposed the marriage we built.
“No.”
I said.
“Probably not everything.”
She cried.
“That’s why.”
“No.”
I leaned forward.
“That is why you could justify leaving.”
“Divorcing.”
“Taking money.”
“Not why you put me next to a bomb.”
Her face collapsed.
“Yes.”
Good.
No moral confusion.
“Why the bomb?”
“Marco said there was no safe divorce.”
“What?”
“He said if I left you, you’d destroy Stefano.”
“Take everything.”
“Watch me forever.”
“Would I?”
I thought.
Old Victor.
Angry.
Humiliated.
Maybe.
I hated answer.
“I don’t know.”
Isabella looked away.
That honesty surprised her.
“But you never gave me chance to choose differently.”
“No.”
She whispered.
Then prosecutor asked about Vassallo.
Isabella met Alessandro twice in Nassau.
Marco arranged.
Vassallo financed offshore accounts.
Provided Bellini team.
Explosives.
False driver prosthetic.
Communication jammers.
In return, Marco promised port access.
And Isabella?
Ten million dollars offshore plus marital assets after my death.
“Did you receive money?”
“Two million already.”
There.
Not only fear.
Profit.
Good.
The prosecutor noted.
Then I asked one question.
“Would you have done it if there were no money?”
Her eyes closed.
“I don’t know.”
I believed her.
That was worse than rehearsed denial.
She continued:
“The morning of the bombing, I almost stopped it.”
“Why?”
“You were asleep.”
“I looked at you.”
“And?”
“I thought about waking you.”
“Then Marco texted me.”
“What?”
“He said if I backed out, Stefano would disappear and I would spend rest of my life under your surveillance.”
Fear.
Again.
But she still walked outside.
Still kissed Stefano.
Still checked watch.
Still told me to hurry.
Choices.
“Did you know Sophia was involved?”
“No.”
“Not until after blast.”
“Marco told me he had seen her near garden before.”
“He said if things failed, he might need leverage.”
“You said ‘Don’t go there.’”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I realized who he meant.”
“Too late.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then Isabella said:
“Is she okay?”
I stared.
“Yes.”
She began crying.
Real this time.
I did not comfort her.
“You do not get to use Sophia’s safety as evidence you still have a conscience.”
Her face tightened.
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
She looked surprised.
Interesting.
Sophia had already taught me same lesson.
Knowing after harm is easy.
Changing before the next choice matters.
The prosecutor ended interview.
As I stood, Isabella said:
“Victor.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Did you ever love me?”
The room froze.
My attorney looked uncomfortable.
I answered anyway.
“Yes.”
She cried harder.
“Do you still?”
I thought about it.
Then:
“I love who I thought we were.”
“That is not the same.”
“No.”
She nodded.
Fair.
Then I asked:
“Did you love me?”
“Yes.”
Immediate.
I believed her too.
Human beings want clean explanations.
She hated me.
She never loved me.
She was greedy.
I was cruel.
Reality was worse.
She loved me and resented me.
Wanted freedom and money.
Feared me and enjoyed power my name gave her.
Betrayed me gradually.
Then crossed a line no feeling could excuse.
Both.
All.
I filed for divorce that afternoon.
No revenge terms.
Prenup enforced.
Her criminal assets frozen separately.
No attempt to leave her destitute beyond lawful outcome.
My lawyers expected harder.
I was tired.
Then I went to Sophia’s temporary apartment with Mateo.
Yes.
Apartment.
I had offered staff cottage.
Mateo refused.
Good.
He wanted daughter away from estate.
I arranged nothing until he asked.
His sister in Hialeah had space.
They stayed there.
I visited with permission.
Sophia opened door.
“You’re wearing normal clothes.”
I looked down.
White shirt.
Dark pants.
“No suit.”
“You look less scary.”
“High praise.”
Mateo sat at kitchen table with bandage gone.
He stood.
“Boss.”
“Victor.”
He hesitated.
“Victor.”
Good.
No hierarchy in his sister’s kitchen.
I handed Sophia her cracked phone.
Repaired screen.
Same case.
She gasped.
“You fixed it!”
“Yes.”
“Did you look at my games?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Then:
“Did police keep my recording?”
“They copied it.”
“So I can delete?”
“If you want.”
She thought.
“No.”
“Why?”
“So I remember I was right.”
I almost laughed.
“Dangerous principle.”
She smiled.
Then asked:
“Is your wife in jail?”
“Not yet.”
“Will she be?”
“Court decides.”
“Are you mad?”
“Yes.”
“At her?”
“Yes.”
“At Marco?”
“Yes.”
“At yourself?”
The room became quiet.
Mateo looked at daughter as if wondering where she learned these questions.
I looked at her.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I built a life where people were scared to tell me things.”
She considered.
“You weren’t scary to me.”
“No?”
“You were.”
Then smiled.
“I did it anyway.”
Good.
Then she asked:
“Are you going to hurt Marco?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because police have him.”
“Because if I decide punishment myself, I become part of same problem.”
She frowned.
“Word soup.”
I laughed.
“Because I don’t want to.”
Better.
She nodded.
“Okay.”
Then:
“Can I see the burned car?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You’re seven.”
“That didn’t matter before.”
Mateo laughed for first time since attack.
I did too.
Then my phone rang.
Enzo.
His tone serious.
“Victor.”
“What?”
“Federal team found something in Marco’s condo.”
“What?”
“A second set of Palermo agreements.”
“Signed?”
“Yes.”
“By who?”
“Marco.”
“Vassallo.”
“And three captains from our side.”
My stomach dropped.
Three.
Men I still believed loyal.
May you like
The conspiracy was not finished.
Not even close.
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