Chapter 3

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.