Vivia Genovese POV

The sun was bleeding over the horizon as our convoy swept through the heavy iron gates of the Moretti estate.

They closed behind us with a finality that made my stomach turn.

I was no longer just Vivia Genovese.

I was Mrs. Moretti.

But not the version I had practiced writing in my notebooks for a decade.

Dante ignored the driver and opened my door himself.

His hand was warm on my lower back, guiding me toward the massive double doors of the main house.

The heat of his palm seeped through the silk of my dress, branding me.

We hadn't spoken much in the car.

The silence hadn't been awkward; it was heavy, charged with a tension that made the air feel thick enough to choke on.

We entered the master suite.

It was dark, masculine, saturated with the scent of leather and sandalwood.

"Sleep," Dante commanded, loosening his tie. "We have breakfast with the Elders in four hours."

He didn't touch me again.

He slept on the far side of the massive bed, still and silent as a statue, while I stared at the ceiling, listening to the frantic beat of my own terrified heart.

Morning came relentlessly.

I sat at the long mahogany table, my spine rigid.

Dante sat at the head, drinking espresso, his eyes scanning a report on his tablet.

The Elders, the ancient pillars of the family, ate in silence.

Silas's chair was empty.

So was the chair set for his wife.

"Where are they?" one of the Elders rasped, tapping his cane against the floor.

"Absent," Dante said, not looking up. "Disrespecting the tradition."

The Elder scoffed. "A boy who leaves gold for gravel deserves neither."

Dante's phone buzzed against the wood.

He stood up, buttoning his suit jacket with practiced precision.

"I have a Commission meeting to handle the fallout," he said, looking directly at me. "Stay within the walls, Vivia."

It was an order, not a request.

He left without a kiss, without a softening of his eyes.

I spent the day wandering the gardens, feeling like a ghost haunting a stranger's palace.

The sun was setting when a garish red sports car screeched into the driveway.

Silas.

And her.

I stood by the fountain, watching them approach.

Silas looked disheveled, his eyes wild.

Lola was clinging to his arm, wearing a dress that was too short and too tight, displaying a mottled constellation of love bites on her neck.

She looked around the estate with hungry, calculating eyes.

Silas saw me and stopped.

"Vivia," he breathed, his voice cracking. "What are you doing in the main house?"

I smoothed the skirt of my dress. "I live here, Silas."

He laughed, a nervous, jagged sound. "Don't be dramatic. I know Uncle Dante just did that for show. To save face."

He took a step toward me, reaching out.

"It was a mistake, Viv," he said, his eyes pleading. "Lola... she was in trouble. She needed me. I had to save her. You understand, right? You've always been the understanding one."

Lola stepped forward, resting her head on his shoulder, smirking at me.

"He has a hero complex," she purred, her voice grating. "He couldn't just leave me."

I looked at them.

I looked at the boy I thought was my soulmate, standing next to a woman who looked at him like he was an ATM.

"You left me at the altar," I said, my voice devoid of emotion.

"I panicked!" Silas shouted, throwing his hands up. "But we can fix this. I talked to Lola. She's okay with it."

"Okay with what?" I asked.

"With you," Silas said, smiling as if he had solved a complex puzzle. "You can still be with me. We just... adjust the arrangement. You can be my second."

The world tilted on its axis.

He wanted me to be his mistress.

Me.

A Genovese.

Lola giggled. "I don't mind sharing, as long as I'm the main course."

Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't a loud snap.

It was the quiet sound of a tether being cut.

"Move your things to the Guest Wing," I said coldly. "Dante doesn't want trash in the main hall."

Silas's face darkened. "Don't speak about her like that. And don't quote Dante to me. He's just holding my seat until I fix this."

He grabbed Lola's hand and stormed past me toward the house.

I stood there for a moment, shaking.

Then I walked to the Guest Wing.

I needed to purge him.

I went into the room where his old things were stored.

Boxes of memories.

Letters.

Gifts.

On top of a pile sat a paper lantern.

We had bought it together in Chinatown when we were sixteen.

He had written Forever on the side in black marker.

Silas appeared in the doorway, breathless.

He saw me holding the lantern.

His face softened into a smug smile.

"See?" he whispered, walking over. "You still love me. You're holding onto our past."

He reached for the lantern.

"I knew you were just hurting, Viv. We can light it tonight. Just you and me."

I looked at the lantern.

Then I looked at him.

I dropped the lantern onto the hardwood floor.

The paper crunched.

I lifted my heel, the stiletto poised like a dagger.

"Vivia, don't—"

I brought my heel down.

The bamboo frame snapped with a satisfying crack.

I ground the paper into the floorboards, destroying the word Forever until it was just dust and debris.

"I want nothing from you," I said. "You are dead to me."

Vivia Genovese POV

The following morning, the atmosphere inside the estate was thick enough to choke on.

I sat in the parlor of the Guest Wing, methodically organizing the removal of Silas's belongings.

Silas sauntered in, wearing a silk robe that he hadn't paid for and certainly couldn't afford.

He tossed a small velvet box onto the table in front of me.

"For you," he said, pouring himself a drink from the mini-bar without asking. "To make up for yesterday's little outburst."

I opened the box.

Inside sat a pair of emerald earrings.

The stones were cloudy. The setting was cheap, brassy gold.

I recognized the brand immediately. It was from a kiosk at the mall.

"I don't wear costume jewelry, Silas," I said, snapping the box shut.

He frowned. "Lola picked them out. She has good taste. She's the Lady of the House now, Vivia. You should be grateful she's thinking of you."

I laughed.

It was a dry, humorless sound that scraped against my throat.

"Lady of the House?" I asked. "You live in the guest quarters. You are a guest."

"Temporary," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "Once Uncle Dante calms down, he'll annul your sham marriage and give me back my birthright. He's just teaching me a lesson."

He leaned over the table, his breath smelling of stale alcohol and mint.

"Speaking of birthrights," he said, his eyes narrowing with greed. "I need the dowry."

I stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"The crates," he said impatiently. "The weapons. The cash. The Genovese contribution. Lola wants to redecorate the East Wing, and she’s suffered so much poverty, Viv. She deserves nice things."

"That dowry belongs to the husband of Vivia Genovese," I said coolly. "That is Dante."

Silas rolled his eyes. "Stop playing pretend. You're damaged goods now. Dante doesn't actually want you. He just wants the alliance. Give me the crates. I'll take sixty-six of the eighty-eight. You can keep the rest for your... expenses."

He thought I was a fool.

He thought I was still the girl who wrote his name in the margins of her schoolbooks.

"You want the dowry removed from the vault?" I asked, my voice soft.

"Yes," he said, grinning like a shark. "Finally, you're being submissive. Learn from Lola, she knows how to please a man."

"Fine," I said. "I'll have it all removed."

Silas clapped his hands. "Perfect. Have them sent to my storage."

"I'll handle it," I said.

He left, whistling a tune I didn't recognize.

I picked up my phone and dialed the Genovese family transport captain.

"This is Vivia," I said. "Bring the trucks. All of them."

"To move the dowry to the Moretti vault, Ma'am?"

"No," I said, watching Silas strut through the garden below. "Return every single crate to my father's estate. The Morettis haven't earned a single bullet."

Two hours later, the trucks rumbled down the driveway.

Silas watched from the balcony, waving, thinking his fortune was arriving at his personal warehouse.

He didn't realize they were driving away with his entire future.

It was Day 3. The "Return Home" ceremony.

Dante was still gone.

No calls. No texts.

I dressed in a black suit, the tailoring severe and sharp.

I walked to the car alone.

When I arrived at my father's estate, the guards looked at the empty seat beside me.

My mother met me at the door, her eyes scanning behind me for the Don.

"He is... busy," I lied, my pride burning like acid in my throat.

"Busy?" my father roared from the study. "A man is never too busy for the Return Home! He disrespects us!"

I walked into his study.

I poured myself a glass of his strongest whiskey, neat.

"He is the Don, Papa," I said, downing the amber liquid. It burned, but the fire felt good.

My father looked at me with pity.

I hated it.

"You married a ghost," he muttered.

"Better a ghost than a rat," I replied, refilling my glass to the brim.

I laughed, but the sound was brittle.

I was the Mafia Queen on paper.

In reality, I was just a woman drinking alone in her father's house, waiting for a husband who hadn't come home.

Vivia Genovese POV

The whiskey had settled into a heavy, numbing fog behind my eyes.

My father had banished me from the ballroom, ordering the maids to drag me out for fresh air, mortified by my unladylike thirst.

I collapsed onto a cold stone bench near the rose bushes, watching the shadows lengthen and blur into the coming night.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel path.

My heart lurched against my ribs.

Dante?

I turned, hope flaring in my chest like a desperate flame.

But it wasn’t Dante.

It was Silas.

He had followed me. Of course he had.

"Look at you," Silas sneered, stepping out of the gloom and into the pale garden light. "Drunk before sunset. You look pathetic, Vivia."

Lola was with him, naturally. She hovered at his elbow like a poisonous moth, feigning concern.

"Oh, honey," she cooed, her voice dripping with saccharine pity. "Is the wine too strong for you? Maybe you should have stuck to juice."

"Get out," I slurred, hating the tremor in my voice. "This is Genovese land."

"I'm family," Silas said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I came to collect the dowry keys. The trucks never arrived at my storage facility."

"Because I sent them back here," I said, lifting a heavy hand to point toward the garage. "You get nothing."

Silas's face flushed a deep, angry crimson. "You bitch. You tricked me."

He marched forward, towering over me, blocking out the fading light.

"You think you're so smart," he spat, his saliva hitting my cheek. "You think because you wear Dante's ring, you matter? He's probably with a real woman right now. Someone who knows how to do more than just look pretty in a dress."

"I am your Aunt now!" I shouted, the alcohol fueling a reckless fire in my veins. "Show some respect!"

Silas threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, grating sound.

Lola joined in, a high-pitched titter that grated on my nerves.

"Aunt?" Silas mocked, leaning down until his face was inches from mine. "You're a placeholder, Vivia. A political pawn. Do you really think The Reaper touches you? Do you think he actually wants you?"

His eyes roved over me with disgust.

"You're a virgin who knows nothing about men. If you act like a whore with that bottle, I won't even take you back as a mistress when Dante inevitably discards you."

The words cut deep.

Not because I wanted him back.

But because the cold knot of fear in my stomach whispered that he might be right about Dante.

Was I just a pawn?

Was I truly alone?

The humiliation of the wedding, the cold and empty bed, the pitying looks from the guests—it all crashed down on me in a suffocating wave.

Hot, angry tears spilled over my lashes, tracking through the powder on my cheeks.

"Leave me alone," I whispered, my voice breaking.

"Cry," Silas taunted, reaching out. "That's all you're good for."

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh to shake me.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the garden shifted. The air grew heavy, charged with a lethal static.

A shadow detached itself from the darkness of the trellis archway.

He moved faster than a man of his size had any right to move.

A hand—thick with muscle and scarred knuckles—shot out and clamped around Silas's wrist like a steel vice.

Silas gasped, his eyes going wide.

There was a sickening crunch of grinding bone.

"Who made my wife cry?"

The voice was a growl. Low. Vibration. Terrifying.

Dante.

He stood there, imposing and dark, still wearing his suit from the meeting. There was dust on his Italian shoes, and a spray of fresh blood on his crisp white cuff.

He didn't look at Silas.

He looked at me.

And his eyes were burning with a cold, focused rage that promised to incinerate the world.