Chapter 1

I took a blade for my husband, Marco, five years ago. It saved his life, but the wound to my stomach cost me the ability to give him an heir. He swore it didn't matter. "I only need you," he had whispered.

Today, he brought home my replacement. He called her a "surrogate," a university student named Bianca who was meant to secure his family's bloodline. But that night, I found them tangled in our guest bed.

I stood in the doorway, a ghost in my own home, and listened to him praise her.

"You're so pure," he whispered. "Lia... she's so frigid."

The betrayal was a second blade twisting in my old scar. His affair became blatant. He showered her with gifts and forgot my birthday. When she coveted the heirloom pendant my dying mother gave me, he ripped it from my neck and gave it to her.

"It's a worthless trinket," he scoffed.

That night, she tried to run me over with his Aston Martin. He arrived to find me bleeding in the driveway, and he didn't even ask if I was okay. He just looked at me with disgust, believing her lies instantly.

"What the hell have you done now?" he bellowed. "You're not dead, are you?"

I laughed then, a hollow, chilling sound. I picked up my suitcase, turned my back on the ruins of my marriage, and made a single phone call.

"Dante," I said to my brother, the Don of the Romano family. "It's done. Cut them off."

Chapter 1

Alessia's POV:

Five years ago, I took a blade meant for my husband, Marco Bellini. It saved his life, but the wound to my abdomen cost me the ability to bear an heir-the ultimate currency in our brutal world.

Today, he brought home my replacement.

The memory of that night is seared into my skin, a permanent ghost clinging to the scar that marred my stomach. The flash of steel under the moonlight, Marco's shocked face, the searing pain as I threw myself in front of him.

He was the rising Capo of the Bellini Famiglia, a man whose ambition burned brighter than the city lights below his estate. His power was raw, his reputation forged in the back alleys and boardrooms of Virelia, a city that bowed to men like him.

He was dangerous, magnetic, and for five years, he was mine.

Before our arranged marriage, he had sworn a blood oath to my father, the former Don of the Romano family, to protect me forever.

"Children don't matter, Lia," he'd whispered against my hair in the sterile white of the hospital room afterward. "I only need you."

I believed him. I loved him so much I deliberately downplayed the sheer power of the Romano name, letting him believe his rise was his own, so his fragile pride would never feel the shadow of my family's influence.

Now, his words are ash in my mouth.

Two weeks ago, he'd cornered me in the library, his face tight with a resolve I hadn't seen since he'd taken over his family's operations.

"My Nonna is relentless," he said, not meeting my eyes. "The Bellini line needs a successor, Lia. It's about legacy."

I already knew where this was going. I'd felt the shift in him for months-the growing distance, the way his eyes would skim past my scar with a flicker of something that looked like resentment.

"I've found a surrogate," he continued, the words clinical and cold. "A university student. She's healthy. She... resembles you."

He was oblivious. He didn't see the calm in my eyes wasn't acceptance. It was finality.

The divorce papers, signed five years ago as a strange pre-nuptial request from my family, were locked in my private safe. I had decided then, in that moment, that our marriage was dead. I was just waiting for him to bury it.

He moved her into the estate yesterday. Her name is Bianca.

He cited his grandmother's pressure, the need to secure his bloodline. He put her in the guest suite at the end of the hall, a space reserved for honored visitors, not surrogates.

Late last night, the silence of the house became suffocating. I walked the halls, my bare feet cold against the marble, and stopped at her door.

It was ajar. I heard my husband's low murmur, then a soft, feminine giggle.

I pushed the door open.

They were tangled in the guest bed sheets, the sacred vows of our marriage shattered by the rhythmic rocking of the mattress. My breath hitched, a sound swallowed by the cavern of my throat.

I stood there, a ghost in my own home, and listened to him praise her.

"You're so pure, so sweet," he whispered to her, his voice thick. Then came the words that felt like a second blade, twisting in the old wound. "Lia... she's so cold in bed. Frigid."

The betrayal was so profound it left me numb. I backed away, unnoticed, and retreated to the master suite we no longer truly shared.

He came to me later, his skin reeking of her cheap perfume. He offered a hollow apology, a string of excuses about his Nonna, about the pressure.

"It won't happen again," he swore, his eyes avoiding mine. "Once she's pregnant, I won't touch her. I promise."

I saw the lie for what it was-a flimsy shield for his desires.

His affair became blatant. I'd find them in the study, her perched on his desk. In the living room, her head on his shoulder as they watched a movie.

He would come to our bed late, a faint smear of lipstick on his collar, a testament to his disrespect.

Then, last week, Bianca announced she was pregnant.

Marco was ecstatic. He showered her with gifts, with affection, his eyes shining with a joy I hadn't seen since our wedding day.

He treated me like a shadow, a piece of furniture he had to navigate around in his own home.

Yesterday was my birthday. He forgot. The day before that was our anniversary. He forgot that, too.

This morning, I found Bianca in my walk-in closet, holding one of my cashmere sweaters to her cheek.

"Marco said I could borrow whatever I like," she said, her smile sickly sweet. "We're about the same size, aren't we?"

I said nothing. I just watched as she walked out wearing my clothes.

That was the final straw.

While Marco took Bianca for her first "check-up," I drove to City Hall. The clerk barely looked at me as I slid the five-year-old divorce documents across the counter. The ink was already dry.

Back in my car, I made one phone call. My brother, Don Dante Romano, picked up on the first ring.

"Dante," I said, my voice even. "It's done. I filed."

A pause. Then, his voice, low and dangerous.

"What do you need?"

"Cut them off," I commanded, the words like ice. "Everything. The contracts, the investments, the protection. All of it."

The vendetta had begun.

When Marco returned with Bianca, he found me in the foyer, my suitcase at my feet. He frowned, his gaze flicking from the bag to my face.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving, Marco."

He laughed, a short, incredulous sound. "Don't be dramatic, Lia. Bianca needs to be looked after. The doctor said she needs rest." He gestured vaguely toward the stairs. "She's feeling tired. I'm going to help her to her room."

The sheer audacity of it left me breathless. He wanted me to stay. He expected me to stay and care for the woman carrying his bastard child, the woman who had destroyed my life.

As he turned his back on me, choosing to escort his mistress to her room, I gripped the handle of my suitcase.

His voice floated down the hall, laced with irritation. "You will stay," he ordered, not even looking back. "And you will oversee her care."

I didn't answer. I just turned, walked out the front door, and left the Bellini name to crumble into dust behind me.