Marco POV:

Later that day, Marco called. His voice came through the line tight, laced with a cold fury.

"I heard what happened. Are you okay?"

"It's just a burn," I said, my eyes fixed on my bandaged hand.

"It wasn't an accident, Sia," he said, his voice dropping. "And her 'sabbatical' in Europe? It wasn't a medical retreat. I had some people look into it. She was partying in Monaco, sleeping with a French arms dealer. She's been playing Dante this whole time, yanking his leash whenever it suits her."

The information didn't surprise me. It only hammered the truth into place. Isabella was a venomous snake, and Dante was a fool-so blinded by obsession he couldn't see the fangs until they were at his throat.

Alessia POV:

When I saw Isabella again at the tower, she cornered me by the elevators.

"I hope your hand heals," she said, her voice coated in a sympathy so false it was practically an insult. "It would be a shame if you couldn't pursue your little hobby." She leaned closer, her whisper a poisoned dart. "The coffee was a message. You're a placeholder. A seat-warmer. Don't ever forget it."

I just looked at her, my face a carefully constructed mask of indifference. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

That evening, Dante came home late. He walked into the bedroom and tossed a small, velvet box onto the bed. It landed with a soft thud.

"What's this?" I asked.

"A reward," he said, not looking at me as he unbuttoned his shirt. "For your good behavior today. For being obedient."

I opened the box. Inside, a diamond necklace glittered under the lights, a river of cold, perfect fire. It was worth a fortune. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

And it was utterly meaningless.

I saw it for what it was: not a gift, but a payment. A transaction. Payment for my humiliation, for my pain, for my submission-the final insult before I collected what was truly owed to me.

I closed the lid.

"Thank you, Dante," I said, my voice perfectly even. "It's lovely."

He grunted in response, already forgetting it, already forgetting me.

I placed the box on my nightstand. Its cold, hard weight on the polished wood was a tangible echo of the one settling deep in my chest. He thought he could buy my silence, my compliance.

He had no idea how high a price he was about to pay.

Alessia POV:

The call from the hospital landed the next day like a punch to the gut. My father's condition was deteriorating. They needed authorization for a new, expensive treatment immediately. The bill for his life had come due, and it needed to be paid now.

My blood ran cold. I called Dante.

"I can't talk right now, Alessia," he snapped. I could hear Isabella's laugh in the background. They were in a meeting, finalizing the alliance between the Moretti and De Luca families.

"Dante, it's my father. The hospital needs payment or they can't-"

"Handle it," he said, his voice clipped and laced with impatience. "You have an allowance. Use it."

He hung up.

My allowance wouldn't cover a fraction of the cost. My hands trembled as I dialed Marco. He answered on the first ring.

I explained the situation, my voice cracking.

"I'm wiring it now," he said, his tone immediate and absolute. "Don't worry about it, Sia. Just be with him."

Relief washed over me, so potent it nearly buckled my knees. It was followed by a wave of cold fury at my husband.

That night was the underworld summit, a tense gathering of New York's Five Families at a neutral hotel. I was supposed to attend as Dante's wife, a silent, beautiful accessory. I looked at the demure navy dress he'd had laid out for me-unquestionably Isabella's taste-and shoved it to the back of the closet.

Instead, I chose a dress of my own. A floor-length gown of blood-red silk that clung to every curve. It wasn't a dress for a quiet Mafia wife. It was a declaration.

I arrived alone.

The moment I walked into the grand ballroom, a hush fell over the crowd. All eyes were on me. Then, Dante made his entrance.

Isabella was on his arm.

He saw me across the room, and his eyes narrowed into slits of pure fury. He was enraged by my audacity, by the dress, by my solitary presence. It was a direct challenge to his control.

Minutes later, he walked over to Don Gallo, the head of the city's oldest Famiglia, with Isabella still clinging to his arm.

"Don Gallo," Dante said, his voice carrying in the suddenly silent room. "I'd like you to meet my companion for the evening, Isabella De Luca."

He had erased me. In front of the entire underworld, he had stripped me of my title, my status, my very existence as his wife. The humiliation was a physical blow, sucking the air from my lungs.

Later, clearly intending to quell the whispers his actions had started, Dante cornered me near the terrace, his hand gripping my arm, his fingers digging into the bone. He feigned a moment of affection, a husband placating his wife for the public eye.

"What game are you playing, Alessia?" he hissed, his smile a grotesque mask that never reached his eyes.

I just looked at him, my own expression a placid sea over a raging storm. "No game, Dante."

From across the room, I saw Isabella watching us. Her face, for a split second, twisted into a mask of pure, venomous fury. She saw his hand on my arm, his attention on me-however brief, however brutal-and she couldn't bear it.

She turned, walked away, and pulled out her phone. I couldn't hear her words, but I saw the cold, calculated malice in her expression as her thumb moved across the screen.

A certainty, sharp and cold as a shard of ice, pierced through me. She wasn't just jealous. She was retaliating. And I knew, with a sudden, gut-wrenching terror, exactly what-and who-her target would be.

Alessia POV:

The call came while I was standing under the shower, trying to wash the scent of the hotel ballroom off my skin. My phone rang from the marble countertop, a shrill, insistent sound that slashed through the hiss of the water.

It was the hospital.

My heart seized in my chest, a cold fist squeezing the air from my lungs. I stumbled out of the shower, grabbing a towel, my hands slick with water as I fumbled to answer.

"Mrs. Moretti?" a nurse's voice, tight with panic, crackled over the line. "It's your father. He's crashing. You need to get here now."

I don't remember hanging up. I don't remember getting dressed. The next thing I knew, I was in the back of a car, urging the Moretti driver to go faster, the city lights a meaningless blur outside the window.

I burst into the hospital and into chaos. The entire cardiac wing was cordoned off. Nurses were rushing, doctors were arguing, and a line of stern-faced men in dark suits stood guard, blocking the entrance.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, you can't go in," one of them stated, his hand coming up to bar my way.

"My father is in there! Alessio Ricci!" I cried, my voice raw. "They said he was crashing!"

A harried-looking doctor overheard me. "Ricci? He's been moved to the third-floor overflow. We had to clear the wing for a VIP."

A VIP. While my father was dying.

I ran for the stairs, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I found him in a small, crowded room, hooked up to a dozen machines that beeped a weak, faltering song. His eyes were closed, his face pale and waxy.

"What happened?" I asked the young resident who was checking his vitals.

"We don't know. His heart just gave out. He needs the specialist, Dr. Evans, but..." He trailed off, looking nervously toward the hallway. "The entire senior staff is with the VIP."

"Who?" I demanded, my voice low and dangerous. "Who is the VIP?"

The resident wouldn't meet my eyes. "A... a Miss De Luca. From a prominent family. It's just a routine check-up, but she insisted."

Isabella.

The name was a block of ice in my veins. This wasn't a coincidence. It was her. That phone call I'd seen her make. This was her cruelty-a calculated strike to block the very people who could save my father's life.

"Then we move him," I said, a desperate plan igniting in my mind. "There's a private cardiac center two miles from here. I'll pay whatever it costs. Get an ambulance. Now."

It was a frantic, desperate scramble. But for a moment, there was hope.

We got him into the ambulance, the paramedics working on him as we sped through the city streets, sirens wailing. I held his hand, whispering to him, begging him to hold on.

We were five blocks away when it happened.

A black truck appeared out of nowhere. It didn't ram us. It just... sideswiped us. A sharp, brutal jolt sent the ambulance careening into a row of parked cars. It wasn't a devastating crash, but it was enough. A classic mob tactic. A delay, not a kill.

The engine died. The sirens cut out.

"We're stuck!" the driver yelled. "It's going to take a few minutes to get clear!"

Inside the back, the paramedic's face was grim. The rhythmic beep of my father's heart monitor faltered. It sped up, then slowed.

And then it stopped.

Replaced by a single, long, unbroken tone.

The ten-minute delay had been fatal.

I don't remember the ride back to the first hospital. I remember a doctor, his expression a mask of practiced pity, delivering the verdict. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Moretti. He's gone."

I didn't cry. I felt nothing. A vast, cold, empty space had opened up inside me where my heart used to be.

I walked back to the cardiac wing. The guards were gone. The floor was quiet. I found a young nurse cleaning up.

"The VIP," I said, my voice flat, devoid of all emotion. "Was it Isabella De Luca?"

The nurse looked terrified, but she nodded. "Yes. She left about twenty minutes ago. Said she was bored."

That was it. The final, damning piece.

This wasn't neglect. This wasn't a tragic accident.

This was murder. A meticulously planned execution. A vendetta aimed directly at my soul.

And in that moment, in the silent, sterile hallway, the grief inside me didn't just harden. It froze, then fractured, and from the pieces came a single, diamond-hard point of purpose.

I took out my phone. My hand was perfectly steady.

I sent a message to the lawyer Marco had given me.

"Liquidate everything. Burn it all to the ground."