Ava Vitiello POV

Five years is a long time to bury a ghost.

Paris had been my salvation. The rain there washed things clean in a way New York rain never did. In those five years, I had taken the European division from a failing laundering front to a legitimate real estate empire.

I was no longer the Jilted Princess. I was the Queen of the Seine.

But blood always calls you back.

My father's seventieth birthday gala was mandatory. The entire Commission would be there.

I walked into the ballroom of the Pierre Hotel wearing a dress that cost more than Liam's life insurance policy. It was emerald green, backless, and dangerous—less a garment and more a declaration of war.

The room parted for me. Whispers followed in my wake.

"She's back."

"She looks lethal."

I took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and surveyed the room with bored detachment.

Then, I saw him near the buffet.

Time had not been kind to Liam Rossi.

He had gained weight. His hairline was receding, a losing battle against gravity. The sharp jawline I used to trace with my fingers was softened by cheap alcohol and too much stress.

He was wearing a suit that was clearly off the rack. The sleeves were too long, swallowing his hands.

He saw me.

He froze. The meatball on his fork slipped and fell back onto his plate with a wet splat.

He started walking toward me. He looked desperate. He looked like a man crossing a desert who just saw water.

"Ava," he said when he got close, his voice breathless.

I didn't smile. I didn't frown. I just looked at him like he was a piece of furniture I had sold at a garage sale and forgotten about until this very moment.

"Hello, Liam."

"You look... incredible," he stammered, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers.

"You look tired," I said.

He flinched as if I'd slapped him.

"Business is hard," he said, shifting his weight. "The market changes."

"I heard you're driving Uber on the weekends," I said coolly.

His face went red.

"It's temporary," he muttered, eyes darting around to see if anyone had heard. "Just until the next big thing hits."

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the entrance.

Voices were raised. Security was trying to stop someone.

"Let me go! I am his wife!"

The room went silent.

Sarah burst into the ballroom.

She looked like a wreck. Her hair was frizzy, her makeup was smeared, and she was dragging a ten-year-old Chloe by the arm.

Chloe was crying. Sarah was screaming.

"Where is he?" Sarah shrieked, her voice cracking. "Where is that lying bastard?"

She scanned the room wildly. Her eyes landed on Liam. Then, slowly, they slid to me.

Her face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hate.

I took a slow sip of my champagne.

"Your carriage awaits, Liam," I said softly.

Ava Vitiello POV

Liam looked as though he wished the floor would crack open and swallow him whole.

Sarah marched across the room, her worn-down heels clicking unevenly against the pristine marble.

"You told me you were working late!" she screamed, shoving Liam hard in the chest. "You told me you had a shift!"

Liam grabbed her wrists, his panic visible. He looked around wildly at the hundreds of eyes watching them—the Dons, the Capos, the wives dripping in diamonds.

"Sarah, please," he hissed. "Not here."

She ripped her hands away.

"Don't you shush me!" she yelled. "I know why you're here. I checked your GPS. You came to see her!"

She pointed a shaking finger directly at me.

I stood perfectly still, the calm in the center of their storm.

Chloe was sobbing now. "Mommy, please, can we go home?"

"Shut up, Chloe!" Sarah snapped.

She reached down and pinched the girl's arm viciously. "Cry louder so he feels bad."

A collective gasp rippled through the room at the sheer cruelty of it.

Liam looked trapped. He turned to me, his eyes begging for help. Begging for me to intervene like I used to. To fix his messes.

I merely raised an eyebrow.

This is the cage you built, Liam, I thought. Enjoy the bars.

Sarah turned her full attention to me. She stepped closer, invading my personal space, radiating the scent of stale perfume and desperation.

"You think you're so special, don't you?" she spat. "Standing there in your fancy dress."

"I think I'm attending a birthday party, Sarah," I said coolly. "You seem to be attending a mental breakdown."

She laughed, a manic, brittle sound.

"You have nothing," she said. "You have money, sure. But you're empty. You're thirty-five and you're alone."

She grabbed Chloe and shoved the poor girl forward.

"I gave him a family!" she screamed. "I gave him a daughter! What did you ever give him besides orders?"

The room fell so quiet you could almost hear the ice melting in the champagne buckets.

Liam looked down at his shoes, trembling.

Sarah was winding up for the kill shot. She wanted to hurt me. She wanted to prove that despite her poverty, despite her misery, she had won the womanhood lottery.

She took a deep breath.

"He hates you, you know," she whispered, loud enough for the front row to hear. "He tells me every night how cold you were. Like sleeping with a statue."

I set my glass down on a passing waiter's tray with a gentle clink.

"Are you finished?" I asked.

Ava Vitiello POV

But Sarah wasn't finished. In fact, she was just getting started.

She hoisted Chloe higher on her hip, using the child like a prop in her staged tragedy.

"He chose real love," she announced to the room, her voice shrill. "He chose passion. He didn't want a frigid bitch who cares more about spreadsheets than people."

Liam finally found his voice.

"Sarah, stop," he groaned, his face flushing.

"No!" she yelled. "Let her hear it! Let everyone hear it! You're barren, aren't you, Ava? That's why you're alone. No man wants a dead garden."

The insult hung in the air, toxic and heavy. It was low. It was vile.

Leo, my cousin, started to surge forward, his hand reaching inside his jacket for a weapon.

I held up a hand to stop him.

I looked at Sarah. I looked at the dark circles etched under her eyes, the faint tremor in her hands. I didn't feel anger. I felt pity. She was a woman drowning, trying to pull everyone else down with her just to stay afloat.

Then, I looked at Liam.

"You didn't choose love, Liam," I said. My voice carried clearly across the silent room, smooth as glass.

He looked up, his eyes hollow.

"You chose fear," I continued. "You were afraid of being poor. You were afraid of prison. You were afraid of being a nobody. So you anchored yourself to the first person who made you feel big."

I took a slow step closer to him.

"And now look at you. You're smaller than you've ever been."

Liam recoiled as if I had slapped him. Tears leaked from his eyes, pathetic and silent.

Sarah threw herself between us.

"At least he comes home to me!" she screeched, desperation clawing at her throat. "At least he has someone! You have nobody! You go home to an empty house and your money!"

I smiled.

It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a predator who has just cornered its prey.

"I am not alone, Sarah," I said.

I turned slightly toward the entrance of the ballroom.

"Ethan?" I called out softly.

The crowd near the double doors parted instantly, like the Red Sea before Moses.

A man stepped forward.

He was tall, with broad shoulders that strained the fabric of his bespoke tuxedo. His hair was dark, silvering distinguishedly at the temples. His face was scarred, a brutal line running down his cheek that only added to his menace.

Ethan Valenti. The Ghost of Chicago. The most feared Underboss in Europe.

He walked toward me with a predatory grace. The room seemed to shrink around him, the air growing thinner with his presence.

He stopped beside me. He didn't look at Liam. He didn't look at Sarah. He only looked at me.

He wrapped a heavy arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. It was a claim. It was a statement of ownership so absolute it made Liam's knees buckle.

"I would like you to meet my husband," I said to Liam.

Liam's jaw dropped.

"Husband?" he whispered.

Ethan looked down at me, his eyes softening in a way that terrified everyone else.

"And our daughter is waiting in the suite," Ethan said, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through my chest. "Lily is asking for her mother."

I looked back at Sarah. Her mouth was open. Her narrative had collapsed into dust.

"I have a husband who would burn the world for me, Sarah," I said. "And a daughter who sleeps soundly because her father is a King, not a coward."

I leaned into Ethan's touch.

"We are done here."