Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

Chapter 393 "Don't be afraid of me. That man, Cossio, he's violent-dangerous. He'll hurt you. Why don't you cwithinstead?" Mila bit her tongue, refusing to answer.

Is he for real? Just going to say that right in front of everyone? What's his angle, being so blunt when Cossio's right there? Then again, maybe their relationship is close enough that this sort of thing isn't out of bounds.

Sure enough, the man everyone called Cossio-whose moods were notoriously unpredictable-didn't get angry. Instead, he simply yanked the other man aside and replied coolly in Italian, "She belongs to me." The man just shrugged and dropped back into his seat at the poker table. As Cossat down, the man glanced at the veiled woman behind him and grinned. "Con, Cossio, be serious. Lethave this beauty, will you? I caught a whiff of medicine on her-she's hurt. You always forget, women need to be cared for and cherished." He seemed suddenly reminded of something, and went on, "Remember that foreign beauty from over twenty years ago? Didn't you-" BANG! The heavy ebony cane slammed down on the table, its tip aimed straight at the man's chest. Cossio's voice was icy and measured: "Are you challengingto a duel? Fine. Nthe place. Sign the contract." A brief hush fell.

Then, as if on cue, the others crowded around the table burst out laughing and cheering, clapping their hands. "A duel! A duel!" They were clearly here for the .

The man raised both hands in surrender, looking resigned. "Alright, alright, my fault for running my mouth. I'm not interested in a duel my lover's waiting forback home." The crowd groaned and booed, disappointed.

Mila sat behind Cossio, her face hidden by a black veil, brow furrowed in thought. A foreign beauty from twenty years ago? From what that man had said, did it mean that, all those years ago, there was a foreign woman by Cossio's side? Twenty years. The timing... and lately, she'd noticed how Cosseemed oddly attentive whenever Felicity was mentioned. She tried to piece things together, but nothing fit.

It struck her suddenly-she'd been married into the Montgomery family for seven years, and yet there was so much she didn't know. All she really knew was that Felicity had suffered from postpartum depression after giving birth to her second child. Her mental health had been fragile ever since. Though she'd mostly stabilized in recent years, she'd never fully recovered.

Sometimes, during her episodes, she didn't even recognize people.

But... what if...

What if the "foreign beauty" from twenty years ago was Felicity? And what if that man's casual use of the word "toyed with" meant more than it seemed? A cold suspicion crept up Mila's spine, chilling her to the bone.

Was Felicity's illness really just postpartum depression? She thought of Felicity's gentle smile, her warm embrace-kinder to Mila than her own mother ever was. Felicity had treated her like her own daughter, and Mila had cto love her as a true mother in return... The realization sent a shiver through her, her whole body trembling.

Another detail surfaced-something she'd never considered before.

For a family as prominent as the Montgomerys, international travel should be routine. Yet, aside from Lysander, Mila couldn't recall any of the core Montgomery family ever traveling abroad-not even for leisure. Odd, considering how many overseas businesses the family controlled.

Once an idea took root, the more she recalled, the more strange inconsistencies she noticed-so many things about the Montgomerys that had never made sense.

Mila shook her head sharply.

No. Stop it. It's impossible! Felicity's background was impeccable.

The Fontaines were a family of scholars. Mila had heard that Felicity was engaged to Lysander's father, Conrad, at eighteen. They'd been childhood sweethearts-the perfect couple, admired by all.

The Montgomerys and the Fontaines-two of the most respected families in the country.

With power and influence like that, how could anyone have hurt Felicity? How could she possibly have been victimized? No. Impossible.

How could she even think such things about her elders? Mila kept telling herself to stop, to focus on escaping, not to get curious. None of this had anything to do with her.

But her fingers tightened around the hem of her dress, knuckles white and veins standing out.

Yet... if it was true, what did these people want with her? Meanwhile, Florence, Italy.

A muffled cry echoed in a dark alley.

Lysander, dressed in a long black coat, his polished shoes pressing down mercilessly on the face of a battered man, ground his heel in with icy contempt. His fox-like eyes were cold as steel. He spoke flawless Italian, his tone frigid. "Talk. Where did that lunatic go?" "I don't know-ah!" The man's head was shoved into a filthy puddle. Lysander's eyes burned with frustration and barely-restrained rage.

He'd arrived in Florence days ago.

But the madman was already gone-vanished. In a foreign country, influence with the kind of influence that man wielded here, tracking him down was like searching for a needle in a haystack. The whole family was fiercely loyal, making interrogation nearly impossible. Lysander's patience was wearing dangerously thin.

Ordinarily, matters like this were beneath him. But he couldn't sit still-he needed to act, to do something, anything, to vent the anxiety and anger threatening to conshim.

At the mouth of the alley, Leonard hurried over, phone in hand. "We found something." On the screen was a photograph, snapped in secret.

It showed a man with shoulder-length golden-brown curls, his skin deathly pale, lips blood-red-a face so striking it bordered on the unreal. He was leading a woman draped head-to-toe in a black veil and a red dress, the two walking together through a forest. Lysander stared at the woman in the photo for a long time, gripping the phone so tightly the screen cracked under his hand. Through clenched teeth, he spat a single name: "Cossio!"