Serafina's POV:

I stared at Dante's message, the words radiating his casual, thoughtless authority.

I didn't reply.

Simply deleting his threats wasn't enough; I needed to erase him completely.

Just as my finger hovered over the block button, a new notification popped up. A friend request.

From Isabella Falcone.

A cold, detached smile touched the corners of my mouth.

The timing was too perfect to be a coincidence.

I accepted it.

Instantly, a message appeared on the screen. It was a photo of Dante, slumped in a leather chair with a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside him. He looked wasted, his tie loosened, his eyes unfocused.

Isabella followed it up with a caption: "He's heartbroken because I'm getting married tomorrow. Poor guy."

I scoffed. He didn't look heartbroken at all; he looked like a pathetic drunk drowning his sorrows.

Next came a voice note. The background was loud, filled with the clinking of glasses and muffled music. But over it all, I could hear Dante's slurred voice, heavy with alcohol and self-pity.

"Isabella... don't marry him... I love you... only you..."

The words were a grotesque parody of a romantic confession. Then, she dropped the final bombshell: a photo of her and Dante tangled in the bedsheets, her face pressed smugly against his bare shoulder.

Her final message was simple, yet dripping with malice: Loser.

A feeling akin to pity welled up inside me. Not for myself, but for the sheer delusion of it all.

I had spent seven years falling in love with a lunatic, and he had an equally unhinged friend to match.

My fingers moved slowly across the screen. I opened a digital gift card app, loaded it with exactly one dollar, and attached a note.

No refunds on secondhand goods. Buy yourself some class.

I hit send. Then, with a deeply satisfying sense of finality, I blocked and deleted Isabella Falcone.

I switched back to my chat with Dante. His message was still sitting there, like an order waiting to be obeyed.

"Come back when you're done throwing your tantrum. Don't make me come get you."

I blocked him, too.

For what felt like the first time in forever, my world finally went quiet, and it was an absolute blessing.

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's POV:

The scene inside was sickeningly decadent. Dante was sprawled on the living room sofa, his face sallow and drawn from the hangover. Isabella stood by the window in a flimsy silk robe, nursing a glass of red wine.

When she saw me, a smug smile spread across her face. "Look what the cat dragged in," she cooed softly.

Her smile died instantly when Rocco stepped out from behind me, his massive frame practically filling the doorway.

I held up my phone, the camera aimed dead at them. "Come on," I said with forced cheerfulness. "Smile. Consider it a souvenir of your grand love story."

Isabella turned ghost-white. She instinctively tried to cover herself, her hands waving uselessly in the air.

I didn't hesitate. I crossed the room in two strides and slapped her hard across the face. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

"Sera, what the hell are you doing?" Dante finally scrambled to his feet, glaring at me, his eyes blazing with fury.

My response was another slap.

I swung with everything I had, my palm connecting violently with his cheek. A sickening crack echoed as his head snapped to the side.

He-a mafia boss who had never been struck a day in his life-stumbled backward, clutching his face in sheer shock and disbelief.

I reached into my pocket, my fingers closing around the cold platinum of the engagement ring. I pulled it out and hurled it right at his face.

The ring bounced off his cheek with a dull clink.

"Trash," I spat. "Just like you."

Rocco finally moved, stepping between me and Dante. His presence was like a silent, terrifying wall.

He fixed Isabella with a dead-eyed stare and issued a single command: "Explain."

Isabella began to tremble, the silk robe slipping off her shoulders to reveal her lingerie underneath. Tears streamed down her face as she babbled incoherently, spinning a desperate sob story that painted me as the villain.

I sneered and walked right past Dante's frozen form. I drove my knee squarely into his stomach, the force of the blow doubling him over. He dropped to his knees with a choked gasp.

Ignoring him, I marched straight toward Isabella. I grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back until her tear-streaked face was inches from mine.

"This," I said, delivering another blistering slap, "is for seven years of my life."

Another slap. "This is to make up for the gift card."

A third slap. "And this is because you have no honor."

She thrashed and screamed, but my grip held firm.

I held her there until her screams dissolved into pathetic whimpers. Finally, with a look of pure disgust, I shoved her away, tearing the silk robe from her shoulders, stripping her of her last shred of dignity. She collapsed onto the wine-stained carpet, naked and sobbing uncontrollably.

The room was filled only with her broken sobs and the heavy sound of Rocco's breathing.

I dusted off my hands, as if brushing away filth. I turned to Rocco, whose face was set in a mask of cold fury.

"Is this enough evidence?" I asked calmly. "Or should I throw in a few more kicks?"

He slowly lowered his phone, his eyes meeting mine. His expression was complicated, but I read everything I needed to know in his gaze-gratitude, rage, and a flicker of deep respect. "Thank you," he said, his voice gravelly.

I gave a curt nod. My job here was done.

As I turned and walked out of the suite, the sounds of muffled, violent anger and shattering glass erupted behind me.

"Act Two," I thought as I stepped into the elevator. "Time to go home and sleep."