Chapter 1

My husband was going to kill me. Not with a bullet, but with a text message I was never meant to see.

It popped up on the family iPad: "Last night was insane. Can't stop thinking about that hotel room. You owe me round two... ASAP." My first thought was our sixteen-year-old son, Marco. But an anonymous online forum quickly pointed out the holes in my theory-the expensive hotel, the transactional tone, and an eggplant emoji, a code for performance enhancers used by men my husband's age.

The truth hit me when I found a condom in his laundry-the same brand I'd found in our son's room months ago. It was never Marco. It was my husband of twenty years, Lorenzo.

The betrayal deepened when I overheard him talking to our son. They laughed about my "episodes" and mocked me for being boring. Marco even told his father, "You should just leave her and be with Katia." Katia-his history tutor.

Their conspiracy, hatched within the walls of my own home, destroyed the last of my love for them.

Now, I've gathered my proof, and his biggest career achievement-the Innovator of the Year award gala-is next week. It's the perfect stage. He thinks I'll be the supportive wife on his arm, but he's wrong. I'm not just leaving him; I'm going to burn his world to the ground in front of everyone.

Chapter 1

Alessa POV:

My husband was going to kill me. Not with a bullet, but with a text message I was never meant to see.

The scent of lemon polish was sharp in the air, a clean, sterile smell that clung to the marble countertops of our sprawling, silent kitchen. It was my job to maintain this silence, this perfection. Lorenzo, my husband, the Underboss of the De Luca family, demanded it.

Our son, Marco, was upstairs, likely scrolling through his phone instead of studying.

I picked up the family iPad from the island, intending only to check the weather for a charity luncheon the next day. A green bubble popped up on the screen, a notification from an unknown number. My heart gave a sharp, painful lurch.

"Last night was insane. Can't stop thinking about that hotel room. You owe me round two... ASAP. "

The message wasn't for me.

My first thought was a mother's instinct, sharp and protective: Marco. He was sixteen, the heir to this brutal empire, and a liability like this-an older, predatory woman-could get him killed.

Shame washed over me, hot and suffocating. I sank onto a barstool, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me.

I couldn't go to Lorenzo. I couldn't go to anyone in The Family.

Instead, I opened an encrypted forum on my own device, a private sanctuary for women like me, women who lived "The Life." Anonymously, I typed out a vague version of the truth, framing it as a mother's fear for her son. I mentioned the hotel, the older woman, the crudeness of the message.

The replies were swift, a mix of sympathy and hard, cynical advice.

SicilianRose wrote: Why do you assume it's your son?

"Who else could it be?" I typed back, my fingers trembling. My husband was a pillar of respect, a man whose honor was everything.

BrooklynBelle was more direct: "You owe me round two" sounds transactional. Not like some kid's clumsy hookup.

ChiTownQueen added: Can a 16-year-old even book a suite at The Atherton without his parents knowing?

The Atherton. A five-star hotel on neutral ground. Marco's secure card had a spending limit that wouldn't cover a bottle of their cheapest champagne, let alone a room. A cold seed of doubt began to sprout in the pit of my stomach.

Then, a new comment appeared, simple and chilling.

Ma'am, is there another man in your house?

Lorenzo. His name flashed in my mind-an impossible, treasonous thought. He was my husband of twenty years. We were a dynasty.

The final blow came from a user I recognized by reputation only, LegalEagle88, a Consigliere from an allied Family. His comment was cold and clinical.

The eggplant emoji. Common code among men in their 40s for performance enhancers. It suggests an older man trying to keep up.

Ice seeped into my bones. Lorenzo was forty-five.

The front door clicked open. Lorenzo's voice, deep and confident, boomed through the foyer. "Alessa! I'm home!"

He strode into the kitchen, his handsome face lit with a broad smile. He held a box of expensive chocolates, a peace offering for being late.

"You look pale, sweetheart. Everything okay?"

I forced a smile that felt like cracking glass. "Just tired."

He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. "I'll run you a bath. Give you a massage later."

I stiffened, a barely perceptible tremor. "I'm fine. I'm glad you're home." I pulled away gently, before he could feel the revulsion coiling in my gut.

He headed upstairs to check on Marco, his footsteps heavy with authority. I was left alone with his briefcase. I needed to unpack for him, to restore the familiar rhythm of our life, to pretend nothing was broken.

In the laundry room, I unzipped his suitcase. My fingers brushed against the front pocket, closing around a small, foil square. I pulled it out. It was a high-end condom wrapper.

The exact same brand I had found at the bottom of Marco's laundry basket months ago. I'd dismissed it then as typical teenage experimentation, relieved he was being safe.

My knees gave out. I sank to the cold tile floor, the wrapper clutched in my fist. The truth hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs.

It wasn't Marco. It was never Marco.

It was Lorenzo.

My phone buzzed. A private message. It was from LegalEagle88.

I was a friend of your father's. He was a good man. My advice to you is this: Do not confront him. Gather your proof. Then burn his world to the ground.

My vision cleared. The nausea receded, replaced by a glacial calm. The canary in the gilded cage was dead.

I typed back a single, brutal reply.

"Tell me how."