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.

Vivia Genovese POV

Silas paralyzed, his brain unable to process the sudden appearance of the monster he feared most.

Dante didn't let go of his wrist.

Instead, he twisted.

Silas screamed, his knees buckling under the pressure, forcing him to bow before us.

Dante shoved him away like he was a sack of garbage.

Silas scrambled back, clutching his shattered wrist, his face drained of blood.

With terrifying indifference, Dante turned his back on the threat.

He stepped into my space, his large body blocking out the world.

He reached out, his thumb brushing away a tear that was tracking down my cheek.

His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence he had just displayed.

"Did he do this?" Dante asked, his voice quiet, dangerous.

I nodded, unable to speak.

Lola stepped forward, trying to salvage the situation.

"Oh, Don Moretti," she said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "It was just a misunderstanding. Vivia is just emotional because of the drink. We were trying to help her. As family. As sisters."

Dante's head snapped toward her.

His glare was physical. It struck her like a slap.

Lola flinched, taking a step back.

"Sister?" Dante repeated, the word dripping with disdain. "You are a parasite. Do not speak to my wife. Do not look at my wife. You are not worthy to breathe the same air."

He snapped his fingers.

Four soldiers materialized from the shadows of the garden.

"Take them to the Warehouse," Dante ordered, his tone bored. "Teach my nephew the cost of disrespecting the Don's wife. Family Law."

Silas's eyes widened in horror. "Uncle! No! It's me! Silas!"

"Fifty lashes," Dante said. "For every tear she shed."

The soldiers grabbed Silas and Lola.

Lola started screaming as they were dragged away into the darkness.

Silence returned to the garden.

Dante turned back to me.

He searched my face, taking in the way I was looking at him—with awe, and fear, and relief.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Tesoro," he whispered.

The endearment—Treasure—hit me in the chest.

I hit his chest.

It was a weak, pathetic hit.

"You left me," I sobbed, the alcohol amplifying my hurt. "You left me alone with them."

I hit him again.

He didn't flinch. He didn't catch my hands.

He took the blows, standing like a stone wall.

"I know," he said. "I had to secure the borders. There was a rebellion in the South. They thought the transition of power was a weakness."

He caught my fist gently in his hand.

He brought my knuckles to his lips.

His lips were warm.

"I burned their houses down," he said against my skin, his eyes locked on mine. "And every time I lit a match, I thought of you waiting for me."

He pulled me closer, until my body was pressed against the hard planes of his.

I could feel the gun in his holster. I could feel the rapid beat of his heart.

"I will never leave you unprotected again," he vowed. "You are mine, Vivia. And I protect what is mine."

I looked up at him.

The scary enforcer of my childhood was gone.

In his place was a man who looked at me like I was the only source of light in his dark, violent world.

My heart raced, not from fear, but from something entirely new.

"Take me home, Dante," I whispered.

He swept me up into his arms, carrying me bridal style toward the car.

"Gladly."