Alessia POV:

The text I'd sent back, "Yes, my Don," was a mask. A shield of cold, hollow compliance I was only just learning how to wear. I knew it would unsettle him more than any tears or accusations.

And it did.

Days later, the entire Moretti estate buzzed with preparations for Dante's own birthday party-the event he had chosen for my public execution. He paraded Isabella around the city, buying her jewels and clothes, a public spectacle for the entire underworld to witness. The whispers followed me everywhere; the pitying glances, the smirks. I ignored them. I was a ghost in my own home, my spirit already packing its bags.

The night of the party, I dressed in a simple, pale dress. No jewelry. No artifice. I was a blank canvas, wiped clean of the vibrant colors of hope and love I once wore for him.

When Dante made his grand entrance, the room fell silent. He stood there, a king in his domain, with Isabella clinging to his arm. She was beautiful, all sharp angles and predatory grace. At her side stood a small, quiet child with wide, vacant eyes. His heir.

Dante's gaze swept the room and landed on me. I saw a flicker of something in his eyes-not guilt, but a strange disquiet. He expected a scene. He expected me to be a broken, weeping mess.

I gave him a placid smile.

He strode towards me, the crowd parting before him like the Red Sea. He stopped, towering over me, his presence a physical weight.

"Alessia," he said, his voice smooth as polished steel. "I'd like you to meet Isabella. My chosen woman." He gestured to the child. "And this is my son. My heir."

They were daggers, each word meant to kill a part of me. I refused to let them draw blood.

I dipped into a graceful, formal curtsy, my eyes lowered in a perfect picture of submission. I addressed not him, but her.

"It is an honor," I said, my voice even and clear. "My future Mafia Queen."

Isabella's perfectly painted lips curved into a triumphant smile. She hadn't expected this, either. She'd wanted a fight.

"How gracious of you, Alessia," she purred, her voice dripping with false sympathy. She leaned in, the cloying scent of her cheap perfume an invasion. "You must come to our official union ceremony next month. It would mean so much to Dante."

I raised my head, my gaze finally meeting Dante's. His eyes were dark, searching, trying to decipher the new, empty landscape of my face. He found nothing.

"I would be honored to attend," I replied, my voice a hollow echo.

Alessia POV:

I played my part. I offered Isabella my congratulations. My support. My loyalty. Each word was a carefully constructed lie, earning me a smug, triumphant smile from the woman who had stolen my life.

Two of Dante's most trusted Soldiers, men who used to greet me with respect, now openly mocked me in a corner. "Look at her," one snickered. "Kissing the feet of the woman who replaced her. Pathetic."

I let myself feel nothing. The sting of their words couldn't breach the wall of ice I'd built around my heart. Dante stood nearby, watching it all. His silence was his consent. It was a clear message: without his favor, I was worthless. Any kindness he'd ever shown me had been a courtesy to my brother. Now, that courtesy was revoked.

Later, Isabella cornered me in a secluded alcove, away from the prying eyes of the party. Her face was a mask of feigned concern.

"Are you truly alright, Alessia?" she asked, her voice soft. Then, she leaned closer, her tone dropping to a sharp, venomous whisper. "How did you find out? About the plan?"

Before I could answer, the entire grand hall shuddered.

A sound like a gunshot cracked through the air, followed by the groan of tortured metal. I looked up. The massive crystal chandelier, a ton of glittering glass and steel, was plummeting directly toward us.

Time slowed.

I saw Dante. He was across the room, but he moved like a blur of black silk and controlled violence. He sprinted, his eyes locked on us. For a heart-stopping second, I thought he was coming for me.

He wasn't.

He ran straight past me, without so much as a flicker of a glance in my direction. He launched himself at Isabella, wrapping his body around hers, shielding her completely as they hit the floor.

He used his own body as a shield for her. He left me to die.

The world exploded in a shower of crystal and searing pain. The fixture's weight crushed my leg, the sound of my own bone snapping swallowed by the cacophony. Shards of crystal sliced into my skin, hot and sharp.

The last thing I saw before darkness consumed me was Dante, frantically checking Isabella for any scratch, his face a mask of pure terror for her safety-oblivious to me, lying broken and bleeding just a few feet away.

I woke up in the infirmary. The first thing I saw was my brother's face, a grim, tight mask of fury and pain.

"Luca," I whispered, my throat raw.

He gripped my hand. "I'm so sorry, Alessia. I should have..."

"No," I cut him off. My voice was a thread, but my resolve had hardened to steel. I looked into his eyes, letting him see the utter finality in mine. "It's over. I've truly let go."

He understood. He didn't need to ask what I meant.

"Ten days," I whispered, my breath catching on a wave of pain. "The transport to Falcone territory. Is it confirmed?"

He gave a single, sharp nod, his jaw tight. "It's confirmed."

My decision was no longer a choice. It was a necessity. It was absolute.

Alessia POV:

Dante strode into my infirmary room carrying a basket of fruit and flowers, what passed for a "get-well" gesture in his world. I was on my phone, texting Luca's contact to confirm the final details of my transport.

Falcone territory. Ten days. All set.

Dante's shadow fell over me. "Where do you think you're going?" he demanded, his voice low and laced with the suspicion of a man who'd missed nothing.

I slowly looked up from my phone, schooling my features into a mask of indifference. "That is no longer within your purview, my Don," I said, my tone formal and cold.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He hated this. He hated that I wasn't fighting, screaming, begging. He dropped the basket on the bedside table with a sharp thud. "Physical therapy," he grunted. "I'll take you."

He pushed my wheelchair through the halls, the silence between us thick and suffocating. He was expecting me to break, to say something, but I remained silent, playing the part of a compliant doll in his possession.

We rounded a corner into the main hall, and then he saw her.

Isabella was standing near the entrance, wringing her hands and looking artfully distressed. Dante released my wheelchair without a second thought, rushing to her side. "What is it? Are you hurt?"

I watched as the wheelchair-which he had left at the top of a subtle ramp leading down to the main floor-began to roll, picking up speed. It was heading directly for a large, decorative stone fountain. A collision would be agonizing for my shattered leg. I had no choice.

I threw myself from the chair, landing hard on the rough stone floor. A fresh wave of searing pain shot up my leg as fresh blood bloomed through the bandages.

Isabella looked down at me, a flicker of triumph in her eyes before she masked it with false sympathy. "Oh, Dante, you should carry her," she suggested sweetly.

Dante didn't even glance at me. "My arms are reserved for my woman," he stated, his voice flat. He turned his back on me, leading Isabella away and leaving me struggling on the cold floor.

As they passed, Isabella leaned down, her voice a triumphant whisper only I could hear. "He chose me. Now tell me, did you overhear our plan?"

I didn't answer. I just stared at her, letting my silence be its own reply. Frustration flashed across her face before she straightened up and took a deliberate step back, her heel catching on nothing at all. With a theatrical gasp and a wild flail of her arms, she tumbled backward into the icy water of the hydrotherapy pool nearby.

"She pushed me!" Isabella shrieked, sputtering.

Rage, pure and black, contorted Dante's face. He hauled a dripping Isabella from the pool, his eyes burning with a terrifying fire. Then he turned on me.

He grabbed me by the hair, dragging me to the edge of the pool. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage of bone.

"You want to play in the water?" he snarled.

He shoved my head under the freezing surface, the shock of the cold stealing the air from my lungs. Panic clawed at my throat as he held me down, his hand a vice on the back of my neck. He loomed over me, his face a mask of cold fury.

"Touch her again," he growled, his voice a Don's command that vibrated through the water, through my very soul. "And I'll strip you of your name. You'll be a ghost. No family, no protection. You'll belong to no one."

My eyes were wide with terror and disbelief, the world a distorted, watery blur. Then, he pushed me deeper, and I sank, the last of my air escaping in a frantic stream of bubbles.