Serena POV

The independent attorney I had retained in secret pushed the annulment papers across the mahogany desk.

I picked up the pen and signed my name without a tremor in the nib. I did not ask for a single cent of Vincenzo's blood money. I did not demand the houses, the cars, or the offshore accounts.

I just wanted to sever my name from the syndicate once and for all.

The sharp edge of the manila folder pressed a thin, white line into my palm. It had become a persistent, angry red by the time I reached the car park. I got into my car and drove away.

While waiting at a red light, I took out my phone; the low hum of the engine seemed to vibrate directly in my teeth.

There was a new post in the high-society mafia wives group. It was a picture of Donna and Rosalie, smiling in front of a mirror at an exclusive boutique.

The comment underneath was from Vincenzo's personal account: "Be jealous."

My hands gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.

I remembered when Donna was three years old, hiding behind my legs and calling me her safe place.

I wondered exactly when the disgust for her civilian mother had begun to poison her mind.

I drove back to the estate to pack my few belongings and leave the papers where Vincenzo would find them.

As soon as I walked in, Donna ran into the living room, twirling in a new dress.

"Dad said I look perfectly elegant," she bragged loudly. "He took us to Half-Liang for lunch."

Half-Liang was a highly exclusive, syndicate-controlled restaurant. Vincenzo used to despise the extravagance of that place. He had always told me he preferred my homemade soup over any Michelin-starred meal.

Yet, he had gone there for Rosalie. And he had forgotten to tell me not to cook dinner.

Vincenzo walked in behind Donna, holding a small pastry box. He wordlessly handed it to me.

"Vincenzo bought that specifically for me," Rosalie said, walking in with a smug smile. "But I am watching my figure. You can have it, Serena."

I opened the box.

It was a mango mousse.

I was deathly allergic to mangoes.

Vincenzo knew this. Five years ago, during our first month in hiding, I had told him about my allergy when he tried to share a mango dessert with me. He had remembered then. He had always remembered.

Now he simply watched me quietly close the box and set it on the coffee table, his expression blank. He said nothing. He did not correct her. He did not apologize.

"You should take some high-society fitness and etiquette classes," Vincenzo said. He loosened his tie, his expression soured by the sight of my plain sweater and jeans. "Spend more of my money. Buy better clothes. And stop bringing those thermoses of homemade soup to my headquarters. It makes me look weak."

The room went dead silent.

I looked at the man I had pulled from the edge of death. I looked at the legs that only worked because I had massaged their wasted muscles for hours every single night.

"Okay," I replied softly.

I went up the stairs in the dark. Slipping into Vincenzo's study, I placed the manila folder on the dead center of his mahogany desk.

A surge of bile rose, and I bit down hard on my molars. I stared at the wood grain of the desk until the dark lines wavered and blurred into a meaningless pattern. I realized I was no longer fit to stand beside the Don.

The double bed was a vast, empty expanse. From the air vent, a dry, chilled draft whispered across my bare shoulder, raising a rash of fine bumps on the skin.

I dreamed of Vincenzo's lowest point five years ago. I dreamed of cleaning his body when he could not even move to use the bathroom. I remembered watching him bite his lip until it bled from sheer humiliation.

I awoke to the damp chill of my own nightgown clinging to my skin, with a chilling realization.

The all-powerful Don wanted to erase me. He wanted me gone because I was a living, breathing reminder of his most shameful, vulnerable past.

And the worst part was that I still loved him. Even as I signed the papers, even as I packed my bags, some pathetic part of me still hoped he would stop me.

He never did.

Serena POV

I made no attempt to get out of bed the next morning to prepare my daughter's breakfast. Instead, I lay beneath the heavy duvet, my ear tuned to the muffled sounds that drifted up from the dining room downstairs.

Rosalie had taken over my kitchen.

"I am so sick of her bland, civilian food," Donna declared loudly. "I wish you were my real mother, Aunt Rosalie."

Donna's voice carried easily up the stairs.

"She eats like a pig," Donna continued. "And she dresses like a peasant. The last time she picked me up from school, my friends thought she was just a maid. She does not belong in our bloodline."

I pressed my hands over my mouth to muffle my sobs. I wept into the mattress, and with each of her daughter's pronouncements, a fresh wave of nausea rose in my throat. I stared at the weave of the bedspread until the threads blurred into a meaningless white pattern.

For weeks, I had been agonizing over whether I should take Donna with me when I left the mafia world.

Hearing her spit those words dissolved any lingering hesitation.

A sharp, cramping pain tore through my lower stomach.

My feet made no sound on the thick pile of the carpet as I dressed and drove alone to a civilian clinic on the outskirts of the city, far from the syndicate's watchful eyes.

The doctor ran a series of tests and came back.

"You are pregnant, ma'am," he said.

I stared blankly at the sterile white wall of the examination room.

"You should take prenatal vitamins," the doctor advised. "It will help with the cramping."

Without a word, I walked out to my car and pulled out my phone. I opened my messages with Vincenzo.

"Are you coming home for dinner?" I typed, a slight tremor running through my fingers.

His reply came two minutes later.

"I am escorting Rosalie to the opera. Do you need anything?"

Slowly, I typed, "I am pregnant."

I stared at the three words on the screen.

Then, letter by letter, I deleted them.

"Nothing," I replied.

Because I already knew what he would say. He would accuse me of trying to trap him. He would tell me a child would not change his feelings for Rosalie. Or worse, he would say nothing at all, and his silence would kill whatever remained of my hope.

Driving back to the estate, I was forced to stop at a red light. I looked out the window and saw Vincenzo's armored SUV parked near a high-end cafe. Through the tinted glass, I could see Vincenzo and Rosalie sitting in the back seat.

Rosalie took a sip from her iced beverage and naturally passed the cup to Vincenzo. He leaned in and drank from the exact same straw without hesitation.

The warmth drained from my fingertips as I drove back to the estate.

Passing through the front doors, I walked into the living room.

My foot, poised to step onto the rug, remained suspended in the air. A dull ache bloomed in my calf from the sudden tension. The static crackle of the air was the only sound I could register, but my body refused to shift its weight forward.

Rosalie and Donna were sitting on the rug, looking through a worn leather photo album.

My breath hitched—it was my hidden album. It held the private photos of me caring for the crippled Vincenzo during his darkest months.

"Look at her wiping his shit," Donna mocked loudly, pointing at a photo of me helping Vincenzo bathe.

Vincenzo walked through the front door just as she said those words.

He stopped, his face hardening with confusion.

He crossed the room in three long strides and snatched the album from Donna's hands. His gaze dropped to the open pages, taking in the images of his atrophied legs and his helpless state. His eyes darkened with a violent rage.

"Burn these pictures," he roared at me.

Rosalie stood up quickly, faking a look of concern. "Let me help you pick up the loose ones, Serena," she said in a sweet tone.

She reached out, attempting to grab my arm.

Disgusted, I swatted her hand away.

"Do not touch me," I said, my voice trembling.

Rosalie let out a gasp and threw herself backward. She hit the edge of the coffee table, resulting in a small cut on her forehead.

Seeing her bleed, Vincenzo lunged forward and shoved me hard in the chest. I stumbled back and hit the plaster wall with a bone-jarring thud.

"You have gone mad," Vincenzo snarled, his voice echoing in the room. "These photos are a disgrace."

He gently scooped a whimpering Rosalie into his arms and escorted her upstairs.

An hour later, Vincenzo walked into our dimly lit bedroom. He wordlessly tossed a roll of bandages onto the bed.

"Are you jealous?" he asked coldly, his gaze devoid of any warmth. "I will repay my debt of honor to you for a lifetime, Serena. I will take care of you. But I am giving you a warning. Do not ever touch Rosalie again."

I looked down at the pathetic bandage resting on the silk sheets.

"I am not jealous," I stated calmly, my voice hollow.

Vincenzo sneered, turned, and walked out, closing the door behind him.

I remained sitting on the edge of the bed, watching a dust mote drift through a sliver of light from the hallway, my own breathing slow and even.

My hand drifted to my stomach. I had not told him about the baby. I had not told him about the cramping. And as I sat there in the dark, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway toward Rosalie's room, I realized I never would.

The stench of rust and old blood clung to the air inside of the van.

Rough hands dragged me out of the back and threw me onto a freezing concrete floor. I looked up and saw a man sitting in a wheelchair in the center of the warehouse.

Bastian. Vincenzo's bastard half-brother. The man who had broken Vincenzo's legs five years ago.

Vincenzo had taken his revenge by shattering Bastian's limbs, leaving him a crippled shell.

"Look at the Don's scrawny civilian wife," Bastian mocked, his voice dripping with malice.

His men grabbed my arms and forced me to my knees. Bastian leaned forward, his fingers digging into my jaw, and forced his mouth onto mine.

I thrashed and screamed, but the soldiers held me down.

Camera flashes blinded me in the dark room.

They dumped me on a deserted stretch of road two miles from the estate an hour later. I walked the rest of the way in the dark, my bare feet bleeding on the harsh gravel. My clothes were torn, and my face throbbed with bruises.

Trembling, I walked into the living room.

Vincenzo and Rosalie were waiting for me.

Vincenzo held up his phone, his eyes bloodshot with a murderous rage. The screen displayed the photos of Bastian kissing me.

"Why are you breaking Omertà?" Vincenzo roared. "Why are you sleeping with my mortal enemy?"

"I was kidnapped!" I cried out, tears spilling down my cheeks. "They forced me. Look at my bruises. Look at my torn clothes. Do you really think I went to him willingly like this?"

For a split second, something flickered in Vincenzo's eyes. His gaze swept over my battered face, my bleeding feet, the raw marks on my wrists where the ropes had bitten into my skin.

I saw it—the moment of doubt. The calculation behind his dark eyes. He was not a stupid man. He was a Don who had survived coups and assassination attempts by reading the truth behind the lies.

He knew. I could see it in the way his jaw tightened, in the way his fingers hesitated over the phone screen.

He knew the photos were staged.

Rosalie must have seen it too, because she quickly covered her mouth and let out a soft laugh. "Maybe she wanted to taste both brothers," she whispered venomously.

And Vincenzo—my husband, the man I had saved—chose to believe her.

Because believing Rosalie was easier than admitting he had failed to protect me. Because acknowledging I was innocent meant acknowledging his own shameful treatment of the only woman who had ever loved him at his worst.

So he let the lie stand.

Rosalie crouched down and looked at Donna, who was standing by the stairs. "Tell your father what you saw today, sweetheart," Rosalie said sweetly.

Donna looked Vincenzo right in the eyes.

"I saw my mother leave willingly with Bastian," Donna lied. "I have seen that man around her before."

It felt like lightning had struck my chest. My own daughter.

The conviction that had anchored me for five years crumbled, like timber eaten through by dry rot, turning to dust at the slightest touch.

"I want an annulment," I demanded, my voice shaking with a hollow finality.

Vincenzo's jaw clenched, but he did not speak.

I turned and ran up the sweeping marble staircase to pack my bags.

Rosalie followed me to the top landing and grabbed my arm.

"I am so sorry this is happening to you," she faked an apology loudly.

At the same time, she viciously dug her sharp nails into my skin.

I tried to pull away, but Rosalie yanked my arm hard.

I lost my footing.

I tumbled violently down the grand staircase, my body slamming against the hard marble steps.

Vincenzo instinctively reached out for me from the bottom of the stairs.

But Rosalie suddenly screamed and faked a fainting spell at the top landing.

Vincenzo pulled his hands back.

He ran up the stairs, scooped Rosalie into his arms, and rushed away down the hall.

He did not spare me a single glance as I lay at his feet.