Chapter 2

Alessia POV:

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, so heavy I could feel the weight of three years of my defiance in it. Then, a voice that sounded like gravel and old whiskey rumbled through the speaker.

"Alessia?"

The sound of my father's voice, the voice of Don Vincenzo Moretti, head of the New York Commission, was enough to make the dam inside me break. A single, hot tear escaped and traced a path down my cheek.

"Yes, Dad. It's me."

"Where are you?" The question wasn't a plea. It was a demand. The voice of a man used to the world rearranging itself to his will.

"I'm in his city," I whispered, unable to say Dante's name. "I made a mistake. A terrible mistake."

I could hear him breathing, a slow, controlled sound that did little to hide the fury simmering beneath it. "You ran from your duty. You ran from your family. You married that... gutter rat without my blessing."

"I know," I choked out. "And I'm paying for it."

I told him everything. The lies, the vasectomy, Elara. The bet. The baby that wasn't an heir but a poker chip. I left nothing out.

When I finished, the silence returned, but this time it was different. It was the calm before a hurricane.

"He put his hands on a Moretti," my father said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal growl. "He put his hands on my daughter. And he used you in a game."

"Yes," I whispered.

"This little underboss," my father continued, a chilling note of dismissal in his tone, "he is going to learn the difference between a street gang and the Commission. He is going to learn what happens when you touch what is mine."

A wave of relief so profound it almost buckled my knees washed over me. I was no longer Alessia Rinaldi, the clueless, betrayed wife. I was Alessia Moretti, and my father's wrath was coming.

"I'm on my way," he said. "But New York is not next door. I need to gather my men. The right men. I will be there tomorrow evening. Can you last that long, little girl?"

The question hung in the air. One more day. Twenty-four more hours in the house of the man who had systematically destroyed me.

"Yes," I said, a shard of ice forming in my chest. "I can last."

"Good," he said. "Don't let him see your fear. You are a Moretti. Remember that. Act the part you've been playing. The loving wife. Just for one more day. Tomorrow, we burn his world to the ground."

The line went dead.

I stood there for a long moment, the phone still pressed to my ear, the cold glass a conduit for the steel flooding my veins. I wiped my face, smoothed my dress over my belly, and forced my lips into a serene smile.

One more day.

I could do that. I could play this part. After all, my entire marriage had been a performance. I was just taking over the lead role for the final act.