Chapter 3

Alessia POV:

I watched them for a moment longer, a tableau of betrayal. Then I turned on my heel.

"I'm leaving," I announced to their backs.

The silence that followed was absolute. No protest. No question. Just the sound of Valentina's quiet sobs. They didn't care.

I went to my bedroom-our bedroom-and started to pack. But first, I walked into the cavernous walk-in closet. On my side, rows of beige, grey, and navy blue hung in perfect order. The muted colors of a Don's wife. The uniform of my prison.

I pushed them aside, reaching for a box at the very back. Inside was the woman I used to be. I pulled out a pair of worn, tight-fitting jeans and a blood-red silk camisole. I stripped off the conservative dress I was wearing and put them on. I let my hair down from its tight bun, shaking it loose around my shoulders. I looked in the mirror and saw a stranger, a flicker of the fiery girl I had buried four years ago. It was a resurrection.

As I packed, every object I touched was a memory of a sacrifice. The art supplies I'd packed away because Santino found them messy. The bright scarves and bold jewelry I'd stopped wearing because his mother, Eleanor, called them gaudy. The entire life I had given up, piece by piece, for a man who was currently comforting another woman in my kitchen. The emptiness of my devotion was a hollow ache in my chest.

I took out my encrypted phone again and sent a single, coded message.

*Need counsel. The Stag.*

Damien Costa, a Capo from my father's organization and a loyal friend from my childhood, replied almost instantly.

*An hour. The usual place.*

I left the house without another word to anyone. The "usual place" was a quiet, family-owned bar downtown, a place where business was conducted and secrets were kept safe. The air was thick with the smell of old wood and expensive whiskey.

Damien was already there, a dark, solid presence in a corner booth. His face was grim.

"Alessia," he said, his voice low. He didn't need to ask what was wrong. It was written all over my face.

I told him everything. The constant boundary-crossing, the nightmares, the foot massage, the shirt. I told him about the deep, soul-crushing shame Santino had brought upon my father's name.

Damien listened without interruption, his expression hardening with every word. He had the protective instinct of a dark godfather, his loyalty to my family absolute.

When I was finished, he was quiet for a long moment. "Are you certain the child is Marco's?" he asked, his voice deceptively casual. "Valentina was... known, before Marco."

The question hung in the air, a seed of doubt that planted itself in the fertile ground of my anger. A deeper conspiracy.

I was so consumed by the thought that I didn't see Santino until he was standing over our table.

His face was a mask of cold fury. The possessiveness radiated off him in waves. He wasn't here out of concern. He was here because his property had left the grounds without permission.

"You're coming home. Now," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin.

The next morning, I woke up in the guest room. My arm was bruised where he had grabbed me. On the nightstand was a bottle of painkillers and a glass of water. A silent, pathetic admission of his brutality.

I walked downstairs. The scene in the kitchen was a cruel joke. Santino had a plate of painkillers for me, but he had prepared a lavish spread for Valentina-pancakes, fresh fruit, orange juice. He was nursing his guilt with me and nursing her with a feast. His callous disregard was breathtaking.

I walked over to the table, my eyes locking with Valentina's. She looked away, a flicker of fear in her eyes.

I leaned down, my voice a cold, quiet whisper for her ears only.

"This is your one and only warning. Do not provoke me again. You have no idea what I am capable of."

I straightened up, meeting her terrified gaze. She was seeing the Mafia Queen now, and she was right to be afraid.