My husband Julian Cain's old flame, Scarlett O'Malley, came crawling back to the Ricci family, seeking our protection.

Because of her, during a shootout with a rival family, my husband chose to shield her. I fell from a second-floor terrace and lost our child.

I called him from the operating table, but he was unreachable, cleaning up her mess.

After the surgery, I saw a photo making the rounds in the underworld: in front of a new speakeasy, Julian was handing Scarlett the keys to a vintage sports car.

The caption read: "To a new beginning."

On the night of that bar's grand opening, I appeared in the long black dress he loved most, only to be told it was a "private party." And there was Scarlett, playing the hostess, wearing my mother's sapphire necklace.

I stared at the necklace, a treasure that belonged in the family vault, and calmly called our Consigliere. "Silas, it's time to clean house."

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1

A week after I was discharged from the hospital, my husband, Julian Cain, finally came home.

He reeked of gunpowder and a cheap perfume that wasn't mine, a triumphant air about him that couldn't quite extinguish the flicker of guilt in his eyes.

I calmly sorted the painkillers and antibiotics from my doctor, refusing to ask where he'd been.

"Alessia, that new territory I told you about—I finally took it!" he announced, as if nothing had happened.

"Trust me, I'll make it right. I was unreachable because I was closing the deal. You're not mad, are you, Principessa?"

I couldn't summon even a cold smile. My lips parted, but no sound escaped.

This wasn't the first time. He always had a seemingly perfect excuse to cover up his sordid betrayals.

Seeing my silence, he closed the distance, his arms snaking around my waist. I went rigid, recoiling from his touch.

"I don't blame you," I said softly. "But don't touch me."

Julian's hand hovered in mid-air, his eyes flashing with disbelief.

He forced a smile. "Alessia, don't be like this. I can't think straight when you're angry."

I didn't respond.

God, the arrogance. Even his apologies were for his own benefit.

A pity I was only seeing it clearly now.

"Guess what I brought for you!" he said, pulling a long velvet box from his inner jacket pocket. It bore the emblem of Chicago's most exclusive cigar shop.

"The latest shipment from Cuba. I brought them back just for you," he said, flicking the box open. "You love these. Come on, try one."

I stood quietly, rooted to the spot.

A sorrow so sharp it pinned me to the floor. As I watched his pathetic one-man show, the faintest smile touched my lips.

"Julian, we've been married for seven years. I don't smoke cigars. Where did you get the idea that these are my favorite?"

Julian's fingers fumbled, and the box snapped shut.

His expression flickered, not with guilt, but with raw irritation—annoyed that I had ruined his moment.

"Sorry, Alessia. I've been so busy, I got confused," he said.

He hadn't forgotten. Those were Scarlett O'Malley's favorite cigars. He'd just gotten his women mixed up.

Julian tried to salvage the situation. This time, he produced no gift. He loosened his collar, revealing his muscular chest, and said with a smirk, "This is the real surprise. Look."

I gazed at his left breast.

When I finally saw the subtle change, my blood ran cold.

Over his heart was the Ricci family crest. Beneath it, where my initial "A" had once been etched, a new design bloomed: a scarlet, S-shaped flower.

The symbol for Scarlett.

He had turned his oath to my family into a pledge of allegiance to another woman and expected me to be moved by his "honesty."

I remembered the rumors I'd heard in the underworld.

"The Ricci Principessa? His heart belongs to that thorny wild rose from the streets. One day, he'll trade the lioness for a rose."

It seemed I was the lioness who'd been declawed.

I finally understood why Julian had run hot and cold on me for seven years. The family alliance I had cherished was just a cage he used to trap me.

"What's wrong? Did a little change move you to tears?" he asked, a smirk in his voice.

I took a deep breath, swallowing the coppery taste of bile that rose in my throat. "Yes."

Julian thought I was captivated by his "romance."

"By the way, you called me so many times before. Did something happen?"

I turned away, my voice a faint sigh. "It's nothing now." But my heart was a frozen wasteland.

So he knew. He knew something had happened.

But what did it matter? He wasn't worried, just annoyed that I had disturbed his precious time with his old flame.

It was the same tone he used after shielding Scarlett in a hail of bullets, the same annoyance he showed when cleaning up the messes she made.

He acted as if gracing me with his time was some kind of favor. I stood and walked toward the bathroom.

Julian called after me, but his phone rang.

He didn't answer. Instead, he turned back to me with an expression that screamed guilt.

"Something's come up. I have to go."

He left, oblivious to my ashen face and the pile of postpartum medications on the table.

The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut, I picked up the encrypted phone and dialed my godfather, the family's Consigliere.

"Silas, begin the preparations. It's time to pass judgment."

Silas sounded grieved by my decision, but he didn't try to talk me out of it.

"Alessia, my child, are you certain? Once judgment is passed, there is no turning back. It means war."

I nodded, then remembered he couldn't see me. "Yes," I said through gritted teeth. "I'm sure. Begin the investigation."

When I married Julian, every elder in the family was against it. He was a street bastard with nothing but his fists and his ambition; I was the sole heiress of the Ricci family, Chicago's Principessa.

No one thought it was a match.

It wasn't until my father, the Don, made him swear an oath of allegiance in his own blood that he was permitted to marry me.

I’d laughed at my father for being so old-fashioned, boasting that Julian and I would become a new legend. Who knew this would be the end?

I was the one who chose Julian. In college, the so-called scions of prominent families were a dime a dozen, and I swatted them away like flies.

Julian never approached me, never offered cheap flattery for my status.

I later learned it was because Scarlett was in Chicago then. All his attention, all his protection, was for the woman singing in some grimy bar.

It wasn't until Scarlett ran off with some Miami drug lord that Julian finally turned his attention to me. Or maybe he hadn't given up on her, just gotten tired of waiting. He chose me as a shortcut to power, and I, the fool, thought it was love.

The night we first slept together, I proposed the marriage alliance to my father. Julian was speechless.

He once asked me, "Alessia, aren't you afraid I have someone else in my heart?"

I replied that I was confident I could be his wife, his one and only.

Looking back, my naivety was laughable. Our relationship was a transaction from the start.

Three years ago, she'd cry on the phone, and he'd ditch a summit with the Five Families in New York to fly to her in Atlantic City, all because she "missed him."

Two years ago, a bomb was planted in my car. While I was hovering between life and death in the emergency room, Julian was gone. It turned out Scarlett had returned to Chicago, and they'd spent the entire night together.

Last year, at the family's annual profit-sharing meeting, he vanished midway through. Later, he was spotted taking Scarlett to watch the sunrise over Lake Michigan.

I opened the encrypted file Silas had sent.

It showed an astonishing accumulation of international flight miles over the past few years.

Irrefutable proof of his devotion, all right.

The intelligence report also confirmed the truth of my miscarriage.

That St. Christopher medal I'd received for "luck"? It was never a gift. It was Scarlett's—she had worn it for years. That wasn't a blessing; it was a taunt.

Julian knew I was pregnant. But when the gunshots rang out, when the danger was real, he never even looked back at me. He shielded Scarlett with his own body.

I was finally awake. From the very beginning, this marriage was a monumental lie.

It took lying in a pool of my own blood, terrified and unable to reach him, for me to finally understand: he never gave a damn about me.

This mistake had to end.

You love her, Julian. Fine. I'm going to make sure you get everything you deserve.

Julian was gone not long after he arrived.

I showered, washing away his lingering scent, and lay down on the cold bed. The doctor had ordered bed rest.

Just as I was drifting off, he called.

Over the phone, I could hear the distinctive roar of his vintage sports car—the one I'd bought him.

"Sorry, Alessia. Things are a bit tricky, so I won't be back tonight. Don't wait up for me, get some sleep."

"I know I've been neglecting you. I'll make it up to you, I swear. We're husband and wife, sworn to the family," he added.

He hung up before I could respond.

I was wide awake.

Julian had used the same excuses countless times—trouble with a territory, a problem with the cops, a provocation from a rival.

A bitter laugh escaped me.

"Husband and wife," I muttered to the dead screen. "You have no right to use those words. I've paid the price for that title enough."

Oaths only matter when they're made. After that, there's only betrayal.

The next morning, I woke to an empty bed and felt a wave of relief. He hadn't come home. Just as I expected.

I was about to get something to eat when a Capo called.

"Alessia, your husband's got some nerve! The bastard has the gall to skip the meeting about the docks!"

"It's fine," I said with a thin smile, and hung up.

The family was just his personal piggy bank. As long as the money flowed, he couldn't care less about his responsibilities.

I was about to call Julian when a new intelligence file from Silas appeared.

It was an intercepted text: "He took a bullet for me. I always knew I was the one you loved most."

In the attached photo, under the dim, suggestive lighting of a speakeasy, Julian's eyes held a glow I had never seen directed at me.

I called him.

"What is it?" His voice was hoarse from a night of indulgence.

Just as I was about to speak, I heard a woman's seductive moan from his end of the line.

"Julian, don't..."

Blood rushed to my head, my stomach churning with a wave of nausea. I thought I was going to be sick.

The words died in my throat. I ended the call and slowly sank into a chair at the dining table, my body still trembling.

Julian and I had been married for years, and I could count the times we'd been intimate on one hand.

He'd always claimed his years on the street had left him cold, that he had no appetite for sex.

It turned out he just didn't want me. With Scarlett, he was a different man entirely.

After a long while, I calmed myself and began to frantically sift through all the materials Silas had sent.

I saved and cataloged every photo, every video of him with her.

I transferred all the evidence—of him spending lavishly on her, taking a bullet for her, buying a mansion for her—into Silas's archive.

So you love her that much. Fine. I'll make sure she becomes the next Mrs. Cain, then.