Chapter 1

I was the wife of the De Luca crime family's Underboss, a beautiful statue whose only purpose was to produce an heir. But after five years, my body had failed.

The day my husband, Alessandro, told me I was barren, he also introduced me to my replacement. He called her a "vessel," a temporary arrangement, but I saw the infatuation in his eyes.

He promised it was just business, but soon he was calling me a "cold statue" behind my back while spending every night with her. The ultimate humiliation came at my birthday party. When a champagne fountain shattered and sliced my arm open, he ignored me bleeding on the floor to shield her instead.

In front of his entire family, the Underboss chose his mistress over his wife.

He left me there, my honor shattered as completely as the glass. I was no longer just a failed wife. I was an obstacle. And in our world, obstacles are removed.

But my arrogant husband didn't know his own father had a contingency plan to protect me. While he was distracted by his mistress's fake pregnancy, he unknowingly signed our divorce papers. My disappearance was no longer an escape; it was the start of my revenge.

Chapter 1

Seraphina POV:

The day my husband, the Underboss of the De Luca crime family, told me I was barren, he also introduced me to my replacement.

He didn't use those exact words, of course. Alessandro was a man of precision and power, a man who had brought rival families to their knees with a single, whispered order. He controlled shipping routes, politicians, and the lives of thousands of men who had sworn fealty to his name. His hands, which had once held me with a possessiveness I mistook for passion, had also signed death warrants. He was a king in all but name, and I was supposed to be his queen.

But queens, in our world, had one primary function.

"It's a mitochondrial defect, Seraphina," he said, his voice as cold and hard as the marble floors of our penthouse. We were in the family's private clinic, a sterile white room that smelled of antiseptic and shattered dreams. "A flaw in your bloodline. It means you are unfit to bear a De Luca heir."

The words didn't shock me. For five years, my failure had been a silent, gnawing shame. Every month that passed without a child was another crack in the perfect facade of our marriage, a strategic alliance between my family's old-world influence and the De Lucas' brutal power. I was a Vitali, bred for this role, my classical ballet training a lesson in discipline and silent obedience. I was an asset, a beautiful, untouchable statue meant to produce the next generation.

And I had failed.

My father-in-law, Don Donato De Luca, the dying lion who still ruled our world from his throne of shadows, had made his decree. Alessandro had one year to produce an heir, or he would forfeit his position as Underboss. The family's obsession with a pure, unbroken lineage was absolute.

That's when he brought her in. Aria.

She was a crude imitation of me. The same dark hair, the same high cheekbones, but where I was polished, she was rough. Where I was restrained, she was wild. She wore expensive clothes like a costume, her ambition a cheap perfume that clung to her skin.

"Aria will act as a vessel for the family," Alessandro explained, his eyes fixed on her, not me. "A temporary arrangement. Once the heir is born, everything will return to normal."

He promised it was just a tool, a means to an end. A lie.

He started staying out all night, claiming he was protecting the "asset." I spent our fifth wedding anniversary alone in the cold, silent penthouse, the city lights glittering like a thousand mocking eyes.

A week later, a fender bender on the slick city streets sent a jolt of fear through me. It could have been a warning from a rival family, a test of the De Luca defenses. I called Alessandro, my husband, my sworn protector. He didn't answer. I went to the clinic alone, the silence in the car a screaming accusation.

The true violation came not on the streets, but in my home. On my vanity, nestled among my crystal perfume bottles, was a tube of cheap, garish lipstick. The color of a whore. My private sanctuary, the one place that was mine, had been defiled.

I didn't need any more proof, but I got it anyway.

At a private club, hidden in the shadows of an alcove, I overheard him with Mark, his consigliere-in-training. His voice, usually so controlled, was thick with an infatuation I had never heard directed at me. He spoke of Aria's passion, her fire. He called me a "perfect, cold statue."

Then came the final blow. He was planning to install Aria in the Lake Como villa, the sacred De Luca property that had been promised to me, the place where generations of De Luca wives had raised their children.

Later that night, I found his tablet. It was filled with intimate photos of them, laughing, touching, their bodies intertwined. Alongside the photos were blueprints. A nursery. For the Como villa.

The betrayal was absolute. The ice around my heart didn't just crack; it began to freeze solid. I wasn't just a failed wife. I was an obstacle. And in our world, obstacles were removed.

That's when I knew I couldn't just leave. I had to erase myself.