My Husband Asked For A Second Wife

CHAPTER 32

Serafina

The remains of the custody papers lay scattered on the marble floor—a tangible symbol of the domestic peace Matteo had just brutally shattered.

I didn’t waste breath on anger; fury was a luxury. What I needed now was cold, precise focus. This wasn’t a matter of hurt feelings or pride; it was a matter of survival, and the absolute safety of my son.

Adrian simply moved, his actions speaking a volume of support that promises never could. He led me away from the exposed front hall and down into the secure, soundproofed library—our shared war room.

“The first rule of war, mia cara,” Adrian said, his voice low and steady as he poured a tumbler of dark amber liquid. “We anticipate, but we don’t react. We hit where he thinks he’s safest.”

I accepted the glass, the heat spreading quickly through my hand, matching the controlled fire in my core. “He thinks his biology is his armor. We know better. Matteo is weak. He’s impulsive. He needs Castellano’s money, and he needs a quick win to prove he's still a threat. We cut off the oxygen.”

Adrian nodded once. We were perfectly matched in our ruthlessness.

We spent the rest of the day and deep into the night submerged in the endless, excruciating paper trail of the Verrelli empire. Adrian had secured all financial records after Don Verrelli’s death, but the key document—the heart of the family’s true, hidden business—was the physical ledger, bound in worn leather, now spread across the immense mahogany table.

Under the harsh, focused light, the elegant script detailing decades of illicit transactions looked deceptively innocent. The room felt dense with history, secrets, and the palpable tension of two people hunting for a phantom.

“We are looking for anomalies, not fraud,” Adrian instructed, his Spanish inflection precise. “Matteo is stupid, but his accountants were professional. They would never risk a major, obvious discrepancy that would flag international regulators.”

He was right. Matteo was too greedy for the long game and too unintelligent for a clean, sophisticated siphon of billions. He preferred immediate, shallow gratification.

As the hours blurred, Leonel was soundly asleep upstairs, protected by multiple layers of security.

My eyes burned, jumping from column to column. I ignored the millions passing through legitimate real estate and logistics, focusing instead on the footnotes and the ‘operational expense’ columns, where legitimate businesses mask illegitimate payoffs.

I finally found a pattern: hundreds of small, petty drains. Over the last five years of Don Verrelli’s life, Matteo had been steadily diverting profits from minor, diversified ventures—a local construction supply company, a chain of laundromats, a minor shipping route—all under the guise of 'maintenance and security.’

“Look at this,” I whispered, my voice rough, my pen dragging a line down the column of figures. “Forty thousand here, sixty-five thousand there. It adds up to nearly three million in five years. He was paying for his lifestyle. He was stealing table scraps.”

Adrian leaned over me, his cheek brushing my hair as he studied my notes. His proximity, even here, was a profound jolt of adrenaline and desire.

“Petty theft, but it’s still theft,” Adrian affirmed, his voice growing cold. “It shows motive, intent, and a profound lack of respect for the business. More importantly, it was all funneled through three key associates who signed off on the expenses: Luca Rossi, Elena Bianchi, and Marco Bellini.”

Adrian pushed himself up and walked to the wall of windows, looking out into the pitch-black night. “Matteo guaranteed their careers, and they guaranteed his silence. If we hit them, Matteo loses his entire support structure outside of Castellano. His testimony will be worthless if his entire witness pool is compromised.”

“Rossi is facing a major city sanitation bid,” I supplied instantly, already planning the attack. “Bianchi is launching a huge luxury condo tower that requires zoning variances this month.”

Adrian turned, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. It was the look of a hawk spotting its prey, and it made my breath hitch. This was the man whose ruthless intelligence made him lethal.

“Perfect,” he said, his eyes glittering. He pulled out his satellite phone—a device only he and a handful of trusted contacts possessed—and began to work. He didn’t use threats; he used information and leverage, the true currency of our world.

First, Rossi. A single, brief call, speaking Spanish in swift, coded phrases. He wasn't talking about Rossi’s theft; he was talking about an environmental impact report Rossi’s company had falsified years ago—information that, if leaked on the morning of his bid, would kill his career instantly.

Next, Bianchi. Italian, brief. He simply mentioned the name of the zoning commissioner and the phrase, “Contratti non puliti.” Unclean contracts. The hint alone was enough to ensure Bianchi’s variances would be denied indefinitely, crippling her project.

Finally, Bellini, the lawyer. A call to a contact in the district attorney’s office, suggesting a highly detailed look into Bellini’s offshore holdings for unreported assets. Not a crime yet, but enough to freeze his ability to assist Matteo legally.

I watched, mesmerized, as Adrian systematically dismantled three people’s lives in under ten minutes, all without raising his voice or leaving the room. He was a force of nature—precise, decisive, and entirely devoted to the outcome: protecting his family.

When he was done, he placed the phone down. “They will be busy fighting their own fires by morning,” he said. “Matteo’s lawyers will find their key witnesses suddenly unavailable or facing federal scrutiny. They will know who did it, but they won't be able to prove anything.”

I walked toward him, my admiration overwhelming the exhaustion. I loved that he protected me, not by hiding me, but by fighting beside me.

“You’re magnificent, Adrian Vasquez,” I whispered, sliding my arms around his waist.

He leaned down, his kiss possessive and thorough, fueled by the adrenaline of the attack and the sheer joy of our shared victory. “We are magnificent, Serafina Dorian Vasquez. Together.”

Our moment of triumph was violently interrupted. I turned back to the ledger one last time, needing to secure the evidence, when a loose page, tucked into a deep crease I hadn’t noticed before, fluttered out onto the table. It was a separate, brittle slip of paper, hidden from the main records.

It wasn't a record of petty theft. It was a single, cryptic bank draft for a colossal sum—far exceeding anything Matteo had stolen—dated just one week before Don Verrelli’s death.

The payee was simply: "Laboratorio di Tossicologia di Messina." A chemical toxicology laboratory in Sicily. Stamped across the top of the draft were the hand-written, unmistakable initials: M.V.

My breath hitched, cold terror seizing my throat. This wasn't just proof of theft; it was the financial trail of a murder, hiding in plain sight. Matteo had paid to cover up the poisoning of his own father.

“Adrian,” I choked out, clutching the paper, my voice barely audible.

He spun around. He took the paper, his eyes scanning the name of the lab and the date. His composure shattered instantly.

“This is it,” he breathed, his voice flat with lethal realization. “This is the smoking gun that proves he paid to cover up the poison.”

A frantic, desperate knock echoed on the library door. Before either of us could react, one of the security guards burst in, his face pale and glistening.

“Dona Serafina, Don Adrian! We have a problem!” he gasped. “A courier just arrived—it’s not from the court. It’s a box. They said if you don’t play the message, you forfeit his only chance to communicate with his son before the hearing.” He held up a small, velvet-covered box containing a single flash drive. The tag read: To Leonel: My Truth.

Adrian stared at the flash drive, his expression a terrifying mix of fury and fear. Matteo knew exactly how to twist the knife, forcing us to choose between safety and the potential for crucial information.

“Adrian, don’t,” I whispered, my voice laced with panic, terrified of what manipulative message Matteo could have recorded.

Adrian’s eyes met mine, cold steel meeting frantic emerald. He was already calculating the risk. “He knows we have the murder proof now, Serafina.he murder proof. He’s counting on us to watch it. He’s counting on us to believe it’s safe. But what if it’s not?”

He grabbed the drive, his thumb running over the velvet case, the bank draft for the Sicilian lab still clutched in his other hand.

“Get the secure air-gapped machine from the server room,” Adrian commanded the guard. “We watch it now. We don't wait for the lawyers or the bomb squad. We see what the fool wants, and then we destroy him.”

I watched him plug the drive into the sterile machine, the ominous glow of the screen reflecting in his determined eyes. We had just found the evidence to prove murder, only to be immediately drawn into a forced confrontation with a desperate, cornered man. My hand found Adrian's, a silent promise to face the incoming blow together. The computer screen flickered to life, showing a darkened room, and then, slowly, chillingly, the face of Matteo Verrelli.