Seraphina Caruso POV

The new apartment smelled of curing concrete and sharp, chemical fresh paint. It was stark, industrial, and utterly mine.

I sat on the floor, my back pressed against the cold wall, the blue light of my laptop cutting through the gloom.

Dante's threats were cascading down my screen, piling up in a suffocating stack of notifications.

Answer me.

You are embarrassing me.

I will kill anyone who helps you.

I opened his contact card. My thumb hovered over the red block button.

Before I could press it, a new notification slid down from the top of the screen. Instagram.

Isabella_Falcone_Gallo requested to follow you.

The sheer audacity was almost impressive.

I accepted.

Immediately, a direct message popped up.

It was a photo.

Dante was slumped in a booth at The Velvet Room, his tie undone, a glass of whiskey tilting dangerously in his hand. He looked sloppy. Weak.

The caption read: He's so heartbroken over the wedding stress. Poor baby needs his real wife.

A second message followed. A voice note.

I tapped play.

Dante's voice filled my empty loft, slurring and heavy with liquor. "Isabella... baby... don't marry him... I love you... only you. She means nothing. She's just a calculator with tits."

\The recording ended with a wet, sloppy sound that could only be a clumsy kiss.

A third message. A photo of two pairs of legs tangled in satin sheets. The Grand Hyatt. Suite 8808. Come see who he really belongs to.

And finally, one word: Loser.

I stared at the phone.

Pain? No.

Anger? No.

It was clarity. Pure, crystalline clarity.

They deserved each other. The weak King and the spoiled Princess.

With the precision of a surgeon, I opened my banking app. I navigated to a digital gift card service.

I selected a generic retail store.

Amount: $1.00.

Recipient: Isabella Falcone.

Message: No returns on used goods. Buy yourself some taste.

I hit send.

Then I went to Isabella's profile. Block.

I went to Dante's profile. Block.

I went to his number. Block.

The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn't empty. It was the sound of the trash taking itself out.

I set the phone down on the floor.

Thirty seconds later, it lit up again.

Unknown Number.

Grand Hyatt. Suite 8808. He's passed out. Come watch me wake him up.

She was using a burner now. She wanted an audience. She wanted me to show up and scream and cry so she could feel superior.

She wanted a show?

Fine.

I would give her a production she would never forget.

Seraphina Caruso POV:

I didn't reply to the text.

Instead, I opened an encrypted messaging app called Signal and scrolled down to a contact saved only as The Broker.

I need a number, I typed. Rocco Moretti.

The three dots appeared instantly. Cost you a favor.

Done.

A contact card appeared on my screen seconds later.

Rocco Moretti. The Enforcer. The man who broke bones for a living. The man who was currently engaged to Isabella Falcone.

The man whose honor was currently bleeding out on his phone screen because of the Gallo and Falcone families.

I saved the number.

I forwarded the screenshots of Isabella's texts. I forwarded the photo of Dante in the hotel booth. I forwarded the voice note where Dante confessed his love to Isabella.

I added one line of text: Suite 8808. Grand Hyatt. She's waiting for an audience.

I pressed send.

I didn't have to wait long.

My phone rang. The screen displayed Rocco Moretti.

I answered.

"Who is this?" His voice was a low growl, grating like gravel in a concrete mixer.

"The woman who wasted seven years on the man currently sleeping with your fiancée," I said calmly.

Heavy breathing on the other end. Then, the distinct roar of a high-performance engine revving to life.

"Is this real?" he asked. The danger in his tone spiked, sharp and metallic.

"Go to the Hyatt. Ask the front desk for the key to 8808. Tell them you're with the wedding party. Or just break the door down. I don't care."

"Where are you?"

"I'm ten minutes away. I'm coming to watch."

"Meet me at the side entrance," Rocco said. "Don't make me wait."

The line clicked dead.

I stood up. I stripped off my comfortable sweats, letting them pool on the floor.

I put on black leggings, a black compression top, and combat boots. I pulled my dark hair into a tight, severe ponytail, pulling the strands until my scalp stung.

I looked in the mirror. I didn't look like a mistress anymore. I looked like a soldier.

I grabbed my keys and walked out.

The drive to the Hyatt was a blur of streetlights and adrenaline. I pulled up to the side entrance, near the loading docks.

A matte black Maybach was already there, engine idling like a beast waiting to pounce.

Rocco Moretti was leaning against the hood. He was huge. Broad shoulders, tattoos creeping up his neck above his collar, a scar slicing through his left eyebrow. He looked like violence wrapped in a bespoke suit.

He saw me and straightened up. His eyes were dark, hollow pits of rage.

"You're the Caruso girl," he said. He didn't sound surprised, just disgusted. "Dante's pet."

"Ex-pet," I corrected, walking up to him. I didn't flinch at his size, though every instinct screamed at me to run. "And you're the man whose ring is on the finger of a whore."

His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek. He could have snapped my neck with one hand, but he just nodded once.

"Let's go."

We walked through the lobby. People parted for Rocco like water around a shark. He didn't stop at the desk. He didn't ask for a key.

We went straight to the elevator. He punched the button for the 88th floor with a force that threatened to crack the panel.

The ride up was silent. The air pressure changed, popping my ears.

"Why give me this?" Rocco asked, not looking at me. "Why not just leave?"

"Because she sent me a gift card for one dollar," I said.

Rocco looked at me then. A flicker of confusion, then a dark, twisted amusement danced in his eyes.

The doors opened.

We walked down the plush hallway. We could hear music thumping from the end of the corridor.

Suite 8808.

I could hear Isabella's laughter. It was shrill, triumphant.

Rocco didn't knock.

He lifted his boot and kicked the lock. Wood splintered with a deafening crack, the sound of a gunshot echoing through the quiet hall. The door swung open.

We stepped into the lion's den.

Seraphina Caruso POV

The suite reeked of champagne and sex.

Dante was passed out on the velvet sofa, his shirt torn open, his face slack and stupid in a drunken stupor.

Isabella stood by the window, wearing nothing but a sheer silk robe and holding a glass of wine. She whirled around at the sound of the door crashing open.

Her smile was wide, expectant. She likely thought it was room service. Or perhaps she arrogantly assumed I had come alone to beg.

That smile vanished the instant she saw Rocco.

"Rocco?" she choked out.

The glass slipped from her fingers.

It hit the floor, shattering. Red wine splashed across the white carpet like a spray of arterial blood.

I stepped out from behind Rocco's massive frame, my phone already raised, the camera recording.

"Smile for the tragic love story," I said coldly.

Isabella scrambled backward, trying to pull the robe closed, but it was too late. Rocco had seen everything.

Dante groaned on the couch, stirring. "Wha... what's the noise?"

He sat up, blinking blearily. He saw me first.

"Seraphina?" He tried to summon his charming smile, but it looked grotesque. "Baby, I told you to go home..."

Then, he saw Rocco.

The color drained from his face so fast I thought he might faint.

"Rocco," Dante stammered, trying to stand up but stumbling back onto the cushions. "Brother. It's not... we were just talking strategy."

"Strategy," Rocco repeated. His voice was terrifyingly calm. He stepped over the broken glass with deliberate indifference.

"Is that what we call it now?"

I walked past Rocco. I walked right up to Isabella.

She was trembling, pressed against the window glass. "Seraphina, please. Don't record this."

"You wanted an audience, Isabella," I said softly.

I raised my hand and slapped her.

It wasn't a gentle slap. It was a crack that echoed like a gunshot through the suite. Her head snapped to the side. A red handprint blossomed on her perfect, pale cheek.

"That's for the text," I said.

Dante lunged forward. "Don't touch her!"

Rocco backhanded Dante without even looking at him.

Dante flew backward over the coffee table, crashing onto the floor. He groaned, clutching his jaw.

I turned to Dante. He was looking up at me, blood trickling from his lip.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the engagement ring. The replica. The lie.

"Here," I said.

I tossed it at him. It bounced off his chest with a hollow clink.

"You can pawn it to pay for your divorce lawyers."

"Seraphina," Dante wheezed. "You're making a mistake. You need me."

I laughed. It was a genuine, dark laugh.

"I built you, Dante. And now, I'm going to watch you crumble."

I walked over to where he lay. I looked down at him with pure disgust.

I pulled my leg back and kicked him in the ribs. Hard.

He curled into a ball, gasping for air.

"That," I said, "is for the seven years."

Rocco stood over Isabella now. He wasn't touching her. He was just looking at her like she was something he had scraped off his boot.

"The engagement is off," Rocco said. "Tell your father the Moretti family withdraws its protection. Tonight."

Isabella began to sob—ugly, heaving sounds. "Rocco, no! My father will kill me!"

"He should," Rocco said.

He turned to me. There was a strange look in his eyes. Respect.

"Are we done?" he asked.

"I am," I said. "You do whatever you want with the trash."

I turned on my heel and walked out of the suite.

I didn't run. I didn't flee. I strode down the hallway, my boots thudding rhythmically on the carpet.

Behind me, the door was still open. I heard Dante shouting something pathetic. Then, I heard the sound of furniture being smashed.

I pressed the elevator button.

The doors slid open. I stepped into the mirrored box.

I caught my reflection. My hair was sleek, my eyes were bright, and for the first time in my life, I didn't look like a shadow.

I looked like a threat.

The doors slid shut, sealing me in silence.

Act One was over.

Now, the war began.