I Paid for His Father’s Funeral With His Money

Through the observation glass, Don Vittorio looked peaceful. As if he’d simply decided to take a nap.

But he wouldn’t wake up.

Unlike his son, Vittorio had always been kind to me. He knew my own family was gone, lost to a different kind of violence years ago. He’d treated me like a daughter. He’d been the one pressuring Antonio to make our union official in the eyes of the Church and the law, to solidify my place.

Now, any chance of that was gone.

I sat in the sterile hallway of the private family clinic and called Marco, my… well, my aide. My responsibilities blurred the lines between wife and unofficial consigliere.

“Clear my schedule for the week. Family matter.”

He hesitated.

“Signora Sofia… there is another issue. Last night, a transfer of five hundred thousand euros was initiated from the family operating account. The authorization bypassed the usual channels.”

I stiffened.

“Antonio.”

“It appears so, signora. The funds were wired to a shell corporation in Liechtenstein. Our contact there says it’s for… legal retainer fees. For an incident in the city last night.”

My vision swam. So not only was he with her, he was using family money—money I helped manage—to clean up her mess. To pay off whoever she’d hit.

Rage, cold and sharp, replaced the grief for a moment. I tried Antonio’s number again. Straight to voicemail.

I took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Marco. Effective immediately, Antonio’s access to the main family accounts is revoked. All of them.”

Marco’s shock was audible.

“Signora… he is the heir. Don Vittorio…”

“Is not currently able to countermand this,” I said, my voice like steel. “Do it.”

I remembered the last time. Our second anniversary. Antonio had wanted to withdraw two hundred thousand for a “gift.” The accountant had stalled, calling me. I’d arrived to find Antonio in a fury. He didn’t hit me that time. Just leaned in close, his breath hot on my face.

“You guard my family’s money like a street monger, Sofia. It’s pathetic. I take what I want. Remember your place.”

I’d backed down then. The shame had lingered for weeks.

I wouldn’t back down now.

“Revoke it all, Marco.”

“As you wish.”

At the Corvino compound, the head of household staff, Gina, was directing two men carrying a designer suitcase to the guest wing.

“Who is that for?” I asked, though I already knew.

Gina gave me a puzzled look.

“For Signorina Chiara, signora. Don Antonio called from the airport. He said she would be staying with us upon their return. He wished her rooms to be prepared.”

The air left my lungs.

“When did he call?”

“Minutes ago, signora.”

I pulled out my phone. One ring. Then a disconnect. Again. Again.

My hand fell to my side, numb.

Loving a Corvino was its own special kind of torture.

Scrolling mindlessly, I saw it. Antonio never posted. But there it was.

[Finally chasing that old dream with you. You said it’s not too late. It isn’t.]

The picture: Antonio and Chiara on a glacier, clad in matching black ski gear, goggles pushed up, cheeks flushed, their heads tilted together. A friend had commented.

[Sofia is so lucky! That resort is impossible to book! You two look amazing together!]

Antonio’s reply was up in seconds.

[Look again. That’s not Sofia. And we do.]

The public humiliation wasn’t new. I’d always been there to smooth it over, to laugh it off.

Now, the words just sat there, stark and cruel.

What was the point?

I was tired. So tired.

I called Marco back, my voice hollow.

“Cancel his black card. Every single one of them.”