The cellar reeked of damp earth and soured wine.

It was bitterly cold.

My silk blouse offered no protection against the icy chill that seeped from the rough stone walls.

I wasn't in a cell, exactly. I was in the open area where the wine barrels were stored, stacked high in the shadows, but the soldiers stood at the bottom of the stairs, blocking the only exit.

Brennan came down twenty minutes later.

He was alone.

He held a frame in his hand.

It was our wedding portrait. The one that had hung in the hallway for three years, a monument to a lie.

In the photo, I looked perfect. Pristine.

He looked triumphant.

"Debbi is in pain," he said, his voice echoing in the silence.

"Good," I shot back.

He didn't hit me.

That would have been too simple for a man like him.

He walked over to a heavy wooden table and slammed the picture frame down.

The glass shattered with a sharp crack.

"Come here," he ordered.

I didn't move.

He closed the distance between us in two long strides, grabbing my wrist.

His grip was like iron.

He dragged me to the table despite my resistance.

"You like to use your hands," he said, his tone dangerously low. "You like to hurt things."

He forced my hand down.

He pressed my palm into the broken glass of our wedding photo.

I bit my lip until it bled to keep from screaming.

The shards sliced into my skin with searing heat.

Blood pooled on the photograph, staining the white of my wedding dress a deep, violent red.

"This is what you did to our marriage," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "You broke it. Not me. You couldn't just be a wife. You had to be a problem."

He released my hand.

I pulled it back, cradling it against my chest as it throbbed in time with my heart.

Blood dripped onto the cold stone floor.

"You are a monster," I whispered.

"I am the Don," he corrected coldly. "And you are a disappointment."

He turned and walked away without looking back.

"Stay down here until you learn how to apologize," he called over his shoulder.

The soldiers followed him up, locking the heavy door behind them with a tone of finality.

I was alone in the dark.

I looked at my hand.

I looked at the ruined photo.

My blood covered his face in the picture, obliterating him.

I reached into my pocket with my good hand.

I still had the silver lighter he had given me on our first anniversary. It was engraved with the words My Flame.

I walked over to the corner where a stack of old files and boxes sat, forgotten in the gloom.

I found a box labeled "Letters."

They were his letters. The ones he wrote when he was trying to court my father's favor.

I dumped them onto the stone floor.

I flicked the lighter.

The flame was small, dancing in the drafty room like a dying hope.

I dropped it onto the paper.

The fire caught quickly.

I watched the words love and forever curl into blackened ash.

The door at the top of the stairs opened again.

Breann stood there, framed by the light from the hallway.

She threw a small first-aid kit down the stairs.

It landed with a hollow plastic clatter.

"Use it," she said. "We don't want you getting an infection and dying before the gala. You still have appearances to keep."

"Why do you hate me, Breann?" I asked, looking up at her silhouette. "I protected you."

"Protected me?" She laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "You lied to me. You told me Marco left town. You told me he didn't love me."

I froze.

"He was a rat, Breann," I said, my voice trembling. "He was selling us to the Feds. Brennan executed him. I told you he left so you wouldn't have to hate your brother for killing the man you loved."

"Liar!" she screamed. "Debbi told me the truth. She told me you ordered the hit because you didn't want a commoner in the family. Just like you don't want her."

"Debbi is playing you," I said, desperation creeping in.

"Debbi is my friend," Breann spat. "Rot in there, Alyssa."

She slammed the door.

I sat by the small fire of burning lies, opening the first aid kit with trembling fingers.

I pulled out the tweezers.

I had to pick the glass out of my own palm.

It took two days for the lock to turn.

The heavy door swung open.

"Dinner," a guard grunted.

I knew immediately-I wasn't being fed.

I was being summoned.

I walked up the stairs, my legs trembling beneath me.

My hand was wrapped in gauze, throbbing in time with my erratic heartbeat. The cut on my cheek had scabbed over, leaving an ugly red line marring my skin.

I walked into the dining room.

The chandelier glittered overhead, casting a harsh, beautiful light on the nightmare before me.

The table was set for three.

Brennan sat at the head.

Debbi sat at his right hand-in my seat.

Breann sat across from her.

There was a place setting for me at the far end of the table, an ocean away from them.

"Sit," Brennan said without looking up from his steak.

I sat.

Debbi stood up.

She was wearing my dress.

It was a vintage emerald silk gown I had bought in Paris. It hung loose on her slender frame, but she wore it with possessive pride.

"I made soup," she announced. "Tomato basil. Brennan's favorite."

She picked up the tureen.

She walked around the table, serving Brennan, then Breann.

Finally, she came to me.

She leaned over, the scent of her perfume cloying and sweet.

"Oops," she whispered.

The tureen tipped.

Scalding, thick red liquid poured over my shoulder, down my arm, soaking instantly into the bandage on my hand.

The heat was searing.

I cried out, jumping up from the chair as the pain registered.

"You clumsy bitch!" I screamed.

Debbi dropped the tureen.

It shattered against the hardwood.

"I'm sorry!" she wailed, backing away with feigned terror. "She scared me! She looked at me with those crazy eyes!"

Brennan was on his feet.

He didn't ask if I was burned.

He looked at the mess on the floor.

"Alyssa," he warned. "Stop making scenes."

"She poured boiling soup on me!" I yelled, clutching my arm. The skin was already blistering beneath the silk.

"It was an accident," Brennan said calmly. "Debbi is trying. You are making it difficult."

He walked over to Debbi and kissed her forehead.

"It's okay, piccola," he soothed. "Go change. Alyssa will clean this up."

He looked at me.

"Clean it," he said. "And then apologize to her for yelling."

"I need a doctor," I said, my voice faint. The room was starting to spin. The pain in my hand and arm was consuming me.

"You need to learn humility," Brennan said coldly. "If you don't clean this up, I pull the funding for your mother's care facility."

The threat hit me like a physical blow.

My mother.

She was the only leverage I had left.

I fell to my knees.

I picked up the jagged pieces of the tureen with my good hand.

I wiped the steaming soup from the floor with the napkins.

Brennan watched me.

"Good girl," he said.

Darkness crowded the edges of my vision.

The infection in my hand, the shock, the burn... it was too much.

I collapsed onto the soup-stained rug.

The last thing I heard was Brennan sighing, as if my unconsciousness was just another inconvenience.

Consciousness returned in a slow, white haze.

I woke up in a sterile room.

The rhythmic beep of a monitor was the only sound.

Brennan was sitting in a chair by the window, looking at his phone.

"You're awake," he said, not looking up.

"Water," I croaked.

He poured a glass and brought it to me.

He held the straw to my lips.

For a second, his eyes softened.

"Why do you fight me, Alyssa?" he asked quietly. "Why can't you just accept things?"

"Because I am your wife," I whispered.

He set the glass down.

"I have to go," he said, checking his watch. "Debbi has an art show downtown. I bought a gallery for her."

"You bought her a gallery?" I asked. "You wouldn't let me open a flower shop because it was 'too dangerous' for the Don's wife to work."

"She needs a hobby," he said, adjusting his cufflinks. "Rest. The doctor said you have a systemic infection. You'll be here for a few days."

He walked out.

He left his wife in a hospital bed to go watch his mistress finger-paint.

I waited five minutes.

Then I pressed the call button.

A doctor walked in.

It wasn't just any doctor. It was Dr. Evans, a man who owed my father his life.

"Alyssa," he said, his face pale as he looked at my injuries. "What has he done to you?"

"I need a favor, Evans," I said, my voice steel despite the pain. "I need you to tell him I'm stable. And then I need you to give me access to the hospital's back exit security codes."

"He will kill me," Evans said, his eyes wide.

"He will kill me if I stay," I countered.

Evans looked at my bandaged face, then down at my wrapped arm.

He nodded slowly.

"Tonight," he whispered. "During the shift change."

I didn't leave that night.

I couldn't.

Brennan had posted sentries outside my door, transforming my recovery room into a cell.

Two days later, he didn't just ask me to leave; he dragged me out of the hospital bed.

"The Gala," he commanded, adjusting his cuffs. "You have to be there. The Zimmermans are making a move on the South Side. I need to show a united front. A strong front."

"I look like a victim," I rasped, pointing to the ravaged skin of my face.

"Makeup," he dismissed coldly. "And wear long sleeves."

The ballroom was a suffocating cage of gold leaf and crystal.

I stood by the champagne tower, encased in a high-necked black velvet gown that served as both armor and a shroud for my burns.

The makeup artist had performed a miracle, plastering over the cut on my cheek, but the wound throbbed violently beneath the thick layers of foundation.

I watched Brennan.

He was circulating through the crowd, shaking hands, playing the benevolent King.

But he wasn't alone.

Debbi was there.

She wasn't hiding in the shadows, as a mistress should.

She was seated at the head table.

She was wearing stark, bridal white.

I watched, paralyzed, as Brennan walked over to the table.

He sat down.

Debbi threw her head back, laughing at something he whispered, and then-in front of the entire Chicago underworld-she settled herself onto his lap.

The room went deathly quiet.

This was a flagrant violation of the old codes. Mistresses were kept in the dark. Wives sat at the table.

Brennan didn't push her off.

Instead, he wrapped a possessive arm around her waist.

He tapped a silver spoon against his glass, the sharp ding-ding-ding slicing through the tension.

"Attention," he boomed.

The orchestra fell silent.

"Tonight is about legacy," Brennan declared, his voice projecting to the back of the room. "The Sterling Foundation has always been about the future. And tonight, I am transferring the directorship of the Foundation to someone who represents the new energy of this family."

He looked at me.

For a split second, a foolish hope flared in my chest-that he was going to apologize.

"To Debbi Foley," he announced.

Applause followed.

It was hesitant at first, rippling with confusion, then grew louder as the sycophants realized which way the wind was blowing.

My Foundation.

The one I had built brick by brick to honor my father.

He had handed it to the girl who had scalded me with boiling soup.

Brennan reached into his pocket.

He withdrew a black velvet box.

He snapped it open.

The diamond necklace inside glittered cruelly under the chandeliers. It was the "Sterling Star." An heirloom meant to be passed down to the firstborn daughter.

He clasped it around Debbi's neck.

She kissed him.

Deeply.

Publicly.

I felt the weight of a hundred stares pressing on me. Pity. Scorn. Amusement.

I couldn't breathe.

I turned and fled.

I crashed through the kitchen doors, ignoring the startled staff, and scrambled up the service stairs to the rooftop terrace.

I needed air. I needed to escape the suffocation.

I burst onto the roof, the biting Chicago wind slapping my face.

I walked to the edge, looking down at the street grid twenty stories below.

"It's a long way down," a voice drawled.

I spun around.

Debbi was there.

She was smoking a cigarette, leaning casually against the HVAC unit.

But she wasn't alone.

A man stood in the shadows of the ventilation shaft.

He stepped forward into the moonlight.

I recognized him instantly.

It was Luca Zimmerman. The brother of the rival Don. The sworn enemy of the Sterling Syndicate.

He was smiling at Debbi.

"You played your part perfectly, babe," Luca said.

Debbi smirked, exhaling a plume of smoke. "He's an idiot. He gave me the codes to the offshore accounts when he transferred the Foundation."

My blood ran cold.

"You're working with them," I whispered, the horror choking me.

Debbi looked at me, her eyes dead. "Oh, look who it is. The ex-wife."

"Brennan will kill you," I said.

"Brennan is wrapped around my finger," Debbi laughed, the sound brittle in the wind. "He thinks I'm his little angel. By the time he figures it out, the Zimmermans will own this city."

I turned back to the door.

I had to tell him.

Even after everything-the humiliation, the pain-the loyalty to the Family was hardwired into my DNA.

I yanked the door open and ran straight into a solid chest.

It was Brennan.

He had followed me.

"Brennan!" I gasped, grabbing his lapels desperately. "They are here. Luca Zimmerman. On the roof. Debbi is with him. She's a mole!"

Brennan looked past me, his expression flat.

Debbi was standing alone by the railing, gazing out at the view. Luca was gone.

"What are you talking about?" Brennan asked.

"Luca was just here!" I screamed, pointing at the empty shadows. "She's working for the Zimmermans!"

Debbi turned around, her eyes wide with feigned shock.

"What?" she cried, her voice trembling. "Brennan, she's hallucinating again. Just like with the soup incident."

"I saw him!" I shrieked. "Check the cameras!"

"There are no cameras on the roof," Brennan said coldly. "We disabled them for privacy."

He grabbed my chin, his fingers digging into my jaw, forcing me to look at him.

"You are sick, Alyssa. You are jealous, and you are sick."

"She has the account codes," I begged, tears stinging my eyes. "Please, Brennan. Just listen to me."

"Enough," he snapped.

He looked at me with pure, unadulterated disgust.

"You are ruining my night. Go downstairs. Get in the car. The driver will take you home."

"Brennan-"

"Go!" he roared.

I stepped back, the fight draining out of me.

I looked at him one last time.

I saw the man I had loved, and I saw the fool he had become.

"I hope she's worth it," I said quietly.

I walked past him.

I walked past Debbi, who offered me a cruel, singular wink.

I took the service elevator down to the alley exit.

I didn't go to the limo.

I turned left, heading toward the extraction point Carroll had set up for me.

I made it three steps.

A van screeched to a halt directly in my path.

The side door slid open with a metallic rasp.

Strong hands grabbed me before I could scream.

A rag soaked in chloroform was pressed hard over my face.

The world tilted and grayed.

The last thing I saw was the "Sterling Star" diamond necklace dangling from the rearview mirror of the van.

Debbi's necklace.

It was a setup.

And my husband had handed me right to them.