“I have a penthouse in the city, you can stay there as long as you like,” I exhale, running a hand over my face. “Hell, have the damn place if you want. I’m never there,” I add, shooting a glare at my lawyer next me when he gives me a sharp nudge. You and your own lawyer are sat across the conference table from us, stacks of paperwork scattered across the wood.

It’s not exactly easy to get a divorce when you’re in the mafia, I suppose.

Just because we’re getting divorced doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, though. We’ve been apart of each other’s lives for years now, it’s just that marriage didn’t work out for us. Mostly because I’m rarely home, but I still refuse to admit this might be my fault. So instead I’m practically just giving you things.

You always did say I needed to work on verbally apologizing instead of gifts.

I sit up a little straighter when your lawyer mentions the protection detail I wrote into the papers. “I want at least one of my men in your vicinity at all times,” I state firmly. “Don’t argue,” I cut you off when you start to disagree.