Reclaiming The Crown From My Ex-Husband

Serena's POV:

At the National Syndicate Summit, the flashing of camera lights pierced my vision. I reached up to smooth the lapel of my suit and suddenly realized that the Vitiello family signet ring was gone.

The ring that had been with me for ten years vanished into thin air. He stole it!

I looked up at Salvatore behind the podium, his cold and stern face seeming like a stranger's.

The expensive tailored suit couldn't hide the brutality of his early years rising to power through bloody slaughter. The oppressive aura he exuded was like a fierce beast.

A reporter in the front row stood up and asked, "Mr. Maroni, your underground network is now the largest in New York. In consolidating this power, who do you pledge your loyalty to?"

I instinctively held my breath. I am Serena Vitiello; it was my grandfather who personally placed the crown on his head, and it was my bloodline that gave him his success.

Salvatore leaned into the microphone, an arrogant curve lifting the corner of his mouth. "Chiara."

The hall instantly erupted into whispers, but I still straightened my spine, stood up, and looked at the family guards stationed at the exit.

"Find this Chiara," I whispered to the enforcer. He didn't nod, only his jaw tightened dangerously in acknowledgment. "Bring her to me."

The summit ended hastily. Ten minutes later, I pushed open the oak doors of the VIP lounge. Salvatore was pouring whiskey, not even sparing me a glance.

"Who is Chiara?" I asked, forcing myself to sound calm.

He took a slow sip of his drink, his cold eyes finally sweeping over to me. "Stop making a fuss, Serena. She's just an inspiration, a girl from the bottom who understands how street supply lines work."

"An inspiration?" I took a step closer, my high heels clicking against the floor. "You gave the credit to a street outsider instead of your wife, instead of the Vitiello family?"

His tall figure closed in, casting a shadow that enveloped me. "I built this network with my own hands, Serena. Your grandfather merely gave me permission. Stop questioning my decisions in public."

My gaze fell on his left hand holding the glass; he was wearing the syndicate signet ring.

"Where is my ring, Salvatore?" I asked coldly.

He waved his hand dismissively. "You lost it, probably left it at the penthouse. Stop your baseless suspicions. We have a reservation at the underground restaurant, let's go."

An hour later, we were sitting in a private booth at the family's underground restaurant, the air thick with the scent of cigars and red wine.

A nervous waiter brought over a porcelain plate and set it in front of me-pan-seared scallops.

My entire body stiffened. Salvatore knew very well that I was severely allergic to shellfish. Even a tiny bit would cause my airway to close up completely within minutes.

"Eat it." He leaned back in his leather chair, his gaze indifferent.

I pulled my eyes away from the plate and stared at his face. "I'm allergic to this, Sal. You know that."

"Of course I know." His voice was low and dangerous. "But you questioned me backstage. You need a reminder of who calls the shots. Eat it, Serena. Otherwise, I will make sure your frail grandfather receives a report about how his granddaughter betrayed the family."

Using my grandfather as a threat, he wasn't just testing my obedience; he was utterly trampling on my dignity. But I could only grip the silver fork, cut a small piece of the scallop, and force myself to swallow it.

"Good girl," Salvatore whispered with a sickening satisfaction. He stood up and tossed down a roll of cash. "I have business to attend to. The car will take you home."

He left without looking back. The moment he disappeared through the doorway, my throat began to burn violently, and my airway rapidly constricted. I stumbled, knocking my chair aside, and forced my way into the kitchen.

The head chef panicked when he saw me covered in cold sweat and deathly pale.

I shoved that large roll of cash to the side, the edges of my vision already starting to turn black.

"Call my private doctor," I forced the words out through the suffocating tightness. "If this dish ever appears in New York again, I will have your hands put in a box."

The chef nodded frantically and dialed the phone. I knew my airway was about to close completely, so I quickly pulled out my emergency epinephrine auto-injector and jammed it into my thigh without hesitation. The intense rush of medicine forced my airway open. I gasped greedily for oxygen, collapsing against the metal counter, panting heavily.

At this moment, a cold thought surfaced clearly in my mind:

My husband wasn't just disrespecting me; he was trying to erase me from his world entirely.

Serena's POV:

The corporate headquarters of the Vitiello family towered into the clouds; it was the place we used to launder our blood and wealth.

The next morning, I walked through the glass doors of the executive floor. Even though my throat still stung from last night's allergic reaction, I kept my spine straight like a queen.

Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks.

A young woman in a fiery red dress was sitting on the polished granite reception desk, flirting and laughing with two family guards.

What was even more blinding was that on the index finger of her right hand, she wore that heavy Vitiello family signet ring.

I approached the front desk. The two guards immediately fell silent and stood at attention, resuming a posture of absolute obedience.

"Take the ring off," I spoke coldly, my voice echoing in the lobby.

The girl looked up and sized me up without a trace of fear, a teasing glint in her eyes. "You must be Serena. Sal said you were a bitch. I'm Chiara."

I didn't even look at her, giving a direct order to the guards. "Take her ring off and throw her off Vitiello territory. If she dares to take another step into New York, shoot her on sight."

The guards' loyalty to the family bloodline was carved into their bones. Without any hesitation, they stepped forward expressionlessly to grab Chiara.

However, before they could touch her, the oak doors of the conference room were shoved open violently. Salvatore strode out, furious.

"No one touches her!" he barked at the guards, stepping in front of Chiara to shield her from me. The guards froze and stepped back, dropping their hands.

"Salvatore," I said coldly. "She is wearing my ring. She is an outsider trespassing in a restricted area. She has to leave."

"She stays." Salvatore growled, stepping closer. "She makes me more money in one night than you do sitting in the penthouse for a year."

"You broke the family rules," I refused to yield an inch. "You broke Omertà, bringing an outsider into the family's sanctuary."

"I am the rules now!" Salvatore roared.

Before his voice even faded, he suddenly raised his hand. A gust of wind brushed past, and a piercing ringing exploded in my ear.

That slap sent me flying to the ground, my temple striking the cold marble heavily with a dull thud.

The lobby went dead silent. The guards stared fixedly at the floor. A reigning boss laying a hand on the granddaughter of the family patriarch in public was an absolute taboo.

My cheek burned fiercely, and my mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood. I didn't get up immediately; I just looked up at the man I had married. At this moment, in my heart, he had completely become a stranger.

"Oh my god, Sal, she almost attacked me just now!" Chiara suddenly pretended to limp back against the reception desk, letting out a delicate whimper.

Salvatore didn't look at me again. He immediately turned to Chiara, his cold face instantly softening as he scooped her up into his arms.

"I'll take you to see a doctor," he coaxed softly.

He carried her straight into the private elevator. He never looked back, not even as the steel doors slid completely shut.

I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth and slowly pushed myself up from the floor. The guards still had their heads bowed-their former loyalty to the family had clearly been bought off by Salvatore's money.

The phone in my pocket vibrated. I took it out; it was a multimedia message from an unknown number. The photo was of Salvatore carrying Chiara into the elevator from behind.

The caption read: "The boss doesn't need a caged bird; he needs a true queen."

I stared at the screen, and the last shred of affection I had for Salvatore died instantly, leaving behind nothing but a cold, hard void.

I looked around the lobby my grandfather had built. He stole my empire and betrayed me. I would make him pay!

Serena's POV:

Past ten o'clock at night, the lock on the front door finally clicked. The penthouse was dim.

I was sitting in a leather chair by the window, my left cheek swollen and throbbing.

Salvatore walked into the living room and paused when he saw me sitting in the dark. He sighed tiredly, went to the kitchen, and grabbed some ice wrapped in a towel.

He walked over to me, trying to press the ice pack against my bruised cheek.

I jerked my head away. "Don't touch me."

"Serena, don't be like this." He tried to soothe me in a low voice, but his tone only made me find it even more ridiculous. "You humiliated me in front of the men. You know my temper."

"You actually laid a hand on the patriarch's bloodline." I forcefully suppressed the storm inside me, my voice unusually calm. "You broke your vow to protect me."

"She is crucial to my network!" Salvatore lost his patience instantly, snapping at me. "She controls the docks. She is untouchable! Put away your childish vindictiveness. She is business, and you are my wife."

"Since I am your wife," I looked straight into his dark eyes, "then come back to the estate with me tomorrow. Grandfather wants to see you."

Salvatore stiffened and avoided my gaze. "I can't go. I have family business to handle."

"What business?"

"There's a problem with the port supply line." He lied without batting an eye. "I'll go see the old man next week."

Watching his back as he walked toward the master bedroom, my heart felt absolutely nothing.

Actually, I already knew exactly what his "business" was. An hour ago, an informant sent over intel-tomorrow is Chiara's birthday, and he rented out an entire casino yacht at the docks to celebrate for her.

He would rather ignore the patriarch's summons to drink champagne with a whore.

I slowly stood up. I walked into my private study and firmly locked the heavy oak door.

I opened my laptop and started a secure, encrypted video call.

The screen flickered a few times before lighting up.

On the other end of the screen, my consigliere appeared. He was a silver-haired old man who had served my grandfather for forty years. He took one look at me, his eyes landing on my bruised face.

His gaze was already deep, but now it turned even colder.

"Give the order, Serena," he said in a low voice, quickly realizing what had happened.

"It's not time yet," I said coldly. "I want him to think I've been completely beaten into submission, that I'm a compliant wife. Tomorrow, I will go see Grandfather alone."

"And Maroni?" the consigliere asked.

"Let him throw his party." A completely temperatureless smile curved on my lips. "Because after tomorrow night, that yacht will sink to the bottom of the East River."

Cutting the call, I walked over to the gilded mirror and looked at the dark purple bruise on my cheek.

Salvatore thought he had everything under control, thought he was the master of this game. But his arrogance made him forget the most lethal trait of the Vitiello bloodline.

We never get angry; we just get even.

The phone on the desk vibrated. It was a text from him in the bedroom: "We'll talk tomorrow. Get some rest."

I deleted the message immediately. I didn't need rest; I needed to prepare for a war.