Serafina's POV:

The silence lasted exactly thirty seconds. My phone buzzed again, this time from an unknown number. The text was short, its tone dripping with insolent arrogance.

Grand Hyatt, Presidential Suite, Room 8808. Dante is right here with me. You're welcome to come experience it for yourself.

Isabella.

Her persistence was almost laughable. She wasn't satisfied with a private victory; she needed an audience. She wanted to watch me break.

A cold, razor-sharp idea formed clearly in my mind.

She wanted a show? I would give her one.

I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number of an information broker who owed me a favor.

"I need Rocco Moretti's WhatsApp number," I typed. "He's Isabella Falcone's fiancé."

The reply came instantly.

"Were you invited?"

I texted back: I have a wedding gift to deliver.

A contact card popped up on my screen.

I added Rocco's number. He accepted immediately-clearly, a man who stayed on high alert.

Without so much as a hello, I forwarded him the photo of Isabella and Dante in bed. Then, I sent the audio recording of Dante's drunken confession.

Before the second message even registered as "Read," my phone started ringing.

I answered.

"Who is this?" Rocco's voice was tight, a low growl laced with suppressed rage. "Where did you get this?"

"My name is Serafina," I said evenly. "Your fiancée is currently in Suite 8808 with my ex-boyfriend. I believe she's waiting for us to catch them in the act."

A sharp intake of breath echoed through the line, followed by a long silence as he fought to leash his temper.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was dangerously calm.

"Your address."

"I'll be downstairs. Give me a minute to change."

I hung up and strode into my closet. I pulled on a black tracksuit and running shoes, tying my hair back into a severe, no-nonsense ponytail.

The mirror reflected a stranger. Her eyes were calm, but deep within them flickered a lethal intent.

This wasn't about jealousy anymore. It was about honor-his, and mine.

Downstairs, a black Maybach idled at the curb, its engine purring with a low rumble. Rocco leaned against it; he was a massive man, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that did nothing to hide the raw, violent power coiled beneath.

Our eyes met, and in that instant, an unspoken understanding passed between us.

We were strangers bound by betrayal, yet suddenly, the most perfectly aligned allies.

At the hotel, Rocco didn't make a scene. He simply murmured a few words to the duty manager, flashed something from his wallet, and walked away with a master keycard for Suite 8808.

Standing outside the door, I could hear Isabella's shrill laughter bleeding through the wood. The sound grated on my nerves, sending a chill down my spine.

I looked at Rocco and gestured toward the door, silently telling him to go first.

He gave a grim, singular nod.

I pulled out my phone and hit record.

With a soft beep, the lock disengaged.

Rocco shoved the door open, and we stormed into the suite.

Serafina POV:

The heavy double mahogany doors of the penthouse suite exploded inward with a deafening crash.

The violent sound ripped through my chest. It took me straight back to being eight years old, hiding under a mattress while debt collectors kicked in our front door. My spine locked. My breathing stopped. My brain instantly shut down every useless emotion and shifted into absolute, cold survival mode.

The echo of the wood slamming against the drywall hadn't even faded when the smell hit me. It was a suffocating mix of expensive vanilla perfume and stale whiskey, rolling out of the dim bedroom like a physical wave.

I stood frozen in the doorway. My eyes locked onto the floor. There, tangled with a cheap red dress, was the custom silk tie I had bought for my fiancé.

On the massive king-sized bed, Dante jerked upright. His bare chest heaved. It was a pure muscle memory reaction, drilled into him since childhood by the Gallo mafia family—always ready for an ambush.

Beside him, Isabella let out a piercing, high-pitched scream. She scrambled backward, frantically pulling the white silk sheets up to her chin, her eyes wide with terror.

Dante turned his head. When he saw me standing in the doorway, his pupils contracted to pinpricks. The lazy, post-coital haze vanished from his face, replaced by a sudden, rigid panic.

From the shadows behind me, Rocco stepped forward. His tall, broad frame moved without making a single sound, his leather shoes silent against the carpet, yet his presence flooded the room with suffocating pressure.

Dante’s eyes snapped from me to Rocco. The panic in his expression mutated instantly into raw, hostile vigilance.

I took a slow, deep breath. I felt the last pathetic, fragile piece of the woman who loved Dante Gallo wither and die inside my chest. I killed it myself. I wasn't going to end up like my mother, screaming and losing her mind over a cheating man until it destroyed her.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I moved my hand with mechanical precision and slowly pulled my phone out of my trench coat pocket.

Dante threw the corner of the sheet aside, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He tried to stand, but realized he didn't even have his pants on. He froze, his body locked in an awkward, pathetic posture.

I unlocked my screen. My thumb didn't tremble at all as it swiped to the camera icon.

The harsh, blue light of the screen illuminated my face. I knew my expression was completely dead.

I pressed the red record button. I aimed the lens straight at the two half-naked bodies on the bed.

Isabella saw the camera and whimpered. She buried her face against Dante’s arm, her shoulders shaking violently.

The sight of her cowering against him stabbed Dante’s ego. He bared his teeth, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle popped in his cheek. He growled my name. A low, threatening warning.

I didn't say a word. I just stepped closer and zoomed in. The screen perfectly framed the smeared red lipstick mark on the side of his neck.

Dante’s face flushed dark red with humiliation and rage. He pointed a finger at the door, trying to summon the terrifying authority of the Gallo Don. He expected me to obey. For seven years, I had bent to his will, and he actually thought his power could suppress my betrayal.

Behind me, Rocco’s bodyguard took one heavy step forward. His hand rested on the holster inside his suit jacket. The faint creak of leather was the loudest sound in the room.

Dante’s hand dropped. His jaw ticked. The reality of the situation crashed down on him—he was completely outgunned.

I moved around the empty liquor bottles scattered on the floor and walked to the foot of the bed.

My hands were perfectly steady. I panned the camera, capturing every disgusting, rotten detail of this room. The clothes. The bottles. The sheets.

Isabella started sobbing into the blankets, a pathetic, broken sound designed to trigger Dante’s protective instincts.

It worked. Dante reached out and put a shielding arm around her bare shoulders. I caught the entire movement on video.

I stared at the screen, my eyes fixing on his hand. It was the same hand that had slipped a three-million-dollar engagement ring onto my finger. A cold, self-deprecating smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth.

I pressed the stop button. The sharp chime of the recording ending pierced the dead silence of the room.

I locked my phone and slid it back into my pocket.

Seeing the camera disappear, Dante let out a breath. He thought I was giving up. He thought I was backing down. His voice softened, taking on that manipulative, placating tone he used when I caught him in a lie. He started to say it was a mistake.

I looked down at him. I looked at the Don of the New York Outfit as if he were a pile of rotting garbage on the sidewalk.

He reached a hand out toward me, his fingers grazing the fabric of my coat.

"Don't touch me. You disgust me."