Daniel Cole wasn’t dead.
That was the first problem.
The second was that he had spent eleven years building a respectable financial empire while everybody who could expose him either died, disappeared, or learned to keep quiet.
The third problem was Ethan.
My former fiancé had not entered my life by accident.
He admitted that much when we arranged a meeting under FBI supervision.
Yes.
FBI.
Turns out thirty-two million dollars, shell corporations, suspected homicide, and organized crime attract federal attention.
Who knew?
Ethan sat across from me in a private conference room.
He looked smaller than I remembered.
Maybe he hadn’t changed.
Maybe I had.
“My father told me to get close to you,” he said.
The sentence should have destroyed me.
Instead, it simply confirmed what I already knew.
“So our relationship was fake?”
“Not all of it.”
“Which parts?”
He looked down.
“I did love you.”
“No.”
“Amelia—”
“You don’t get to use that word as a discount coupon on everything else.”
His face tightened.
“I was supposed to find Thomas’s records.”
“And when you couldn’t?”
“I stayed.”
“How romantic.”
“I wanted a life with you.”
“A life where you controlled what I ate?”
He flinched.
“That wasn’t—”
“Where you copied my key?”
“I was looking for the records.”
“Where you checked my phone?”
“I needed to know whether anyone had contacted you.”
“Where you made me feel ashamed of my body?”
His silence answered.
I finally understood something.
Ethan’s criticism had never really been about my weight.
It had been about making me doubt myself.
A woman who doubted herself was easier to control.
That realization should have made me angry.
Instead, it set me free.
“You failed,” I said.
“What?”
“You spent two years trying to make me smaller.”
I leaned forward.
“I’m still here.”
Ethan looked away.
Then he told us everything.
Daniel Cole had continued the laundering network after Salvatore and Vincent died.
When Lorenzo began investigating irregularities, Daniel became afraid marriage would stabilize Lorenzo and give him access to alliances that could expose old accounts.
So he sabotaged every potential bride.
Anonymous photographs.
Manufactured evidence.
Rumors.
Surveillance.
Each woman was frightened into leaving.
Bianca came closest to discovering the truth.
That was why the harassment continued after she left.
“Why me?” I asked.
Ethan swallowed.
“Because Dad thought putting you near Lorenzo would accomplish two things.”
“Find my father’s records.”
“And destroy Lorenzo emotionally when you left.”
I stared at him.
That was the cruelest part.
Daniel had studied Lorenzo.
He knew six rejections had convinced him he was fundamentally unlovable.
A seventh would finish the job.
“You were supposed to become number seven,” Ethan said.
I stood.
“No.”
He looked up.
“I was supposed to.”
Then I walked out.
Lorenzo waited in the hallway.
He didn’t ask what Ethan said.
He looked at my face and opened his arms.
I walked straight into them.
The ninety days were nearly over.
We had survived anonymous threats, a break-in, financial conspiracies, federal interviews, and Rosa attempting to plan our wedding before either of us had technically agreed to have one.
But one question remained.
Why had Lorenzo expected every woman to fear him?
The answer came that evening.
We sat beside the fireplace.
“Tell me,” I said.
He knew what I meant.
“The rumors about my size?”
“About why you think it makes you dangerous.”
He stared into the fire.
“When I was twenty-one, I got into a fight.”
I waited.
“A man insulted my mother. I hit him.”
“What happened?”
“Hospital.”
My stomach tightened.
“I didn’t understand my own strength.”
“And?”
“I never forgot.”
That single moment had shaped him.
The careful movements.
The constant restraint.
The way he waited before touching anyone.
The way he gave me a key.
The way he knelt before frightened children.
Lorenzo wasn’t terrified of being hurt.
He was terrified of hurting someone.
I moved closer.
“You learned.”
“That doesn’t erase what happened.”
“No.”
I took his hand.
“But spending seventeen years punishing yourself doesn’t heal him either.”
His fingers closed carefully around mine.
“Six women looked at me like I was a monster.”
“Maybe because somebody spent months convincing them you were.”
“And you?”
“I nearly strangled you on arrival.”
His laugh surprised us both.
I smiled.
“Seems unfair to judge.”
Then his expression softened.
“Amelia.”
“Yes?”
“The ninety days end Friday.”
“I know.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know.”
“You can return to Milwaukee.”
“I know.”
His jaw tightened.
I waited.
Finally:
“I don’t want you to.”
There it was.
No command.
No arrangement.
No pressure.
Just truth.
I squeezed his hand.
“Good.”
His eyes searched mine.
“Because I don’t want to go.”
For one perfect second, everything felt simple.
Then the window behind Lorenzo exploded.
He pulled me down.
Glass sprayed across the floor.
Marco rushed in with security.
Nobody was hit.
A brick lay among the broken glass.
A note was wrapped around it.
Lorenzo opened it.
His face went white.
I took the paper.
THE CARTER WOMAN LEAVES BY FRIDAY.
OR SHE LEAVES IN A CASKET.