Lana POV

The morning sun assaulted the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Cavallaro penthouse. It offered no warmth; it felt only exposing, stripping away the shadows I had been hiding in.

Jameson jolted awake to the shrill sound of a ringtone.

It wasn't a standard trill. It was a specific, cheerful melody-one I recognized instantly because I had heard that exact chime on Caren's phone a thousand times.

He moved faster than a hungover man should, scrambling for the burner phone he thought I didn't know existed.

He answered it before his eyes were even fully open.

"Yeah?" His voice was rough, laced with a panic that had nothing to do with business.

I sat at the vanity, methodically brushing my hair, watching him through the reflection of the mirror. I had been awake for hours, staring at the evidence I'd already captured on my phone.

He softened visibly. His shoulders dropped, the tension bleeding out of him. He listened for a moment, then whispered, "I know. I know, baby. I'll fix it."

He hung up and turned to me. The shift was instantaneous. The tenderness evaporated, replaced by the cold, arrogant mask of the Philadelphia heir.

"Who was that?" I asked, my voice deadly steady.

"Business," he lied effortlessly, swinging his legs out of bed. "An issue with a shipment in Jersey. Don't worry your pretty head about it."

He stood and stretched, his body a map of beautiful, terrifying violence. Muscles carved for brutality, scars that whispered of turf wars...

And there, stark against his pectoral muscle, was that fresh, black C.

He walked toward the bathroom, ignoring the brand on his chest as if ignoring it would make it disappear. As if he hadn't carved his infidelity into his own skin.

"Jameson," I said.

He stopped, his hand gripping the doorframe. "What, Lana? I have a headache."

"You have ink on your chest."

He froze. The muscles in his back coiled tight.

Slowly, he turned around. He looked down at himself, feigning surprise, but I caught the flash of genuine fear in his eyes.

If my father-the Don of Chicago-saw that tattoo, Jameson would be a corpse before sunset. The alliance would dissolve in blood. Philadelphia would burn.

"It's nothing," he said, his voice tight. "A drunken mistake from the bachelor party. Some stripper's initial. It means nothing."

"A stripper named Caren?" I asked.

The color drained from his face.

He took a step toward me-a classic intimidation tactic. He was used to people cowering before him.

"You're crazy," he spat. "You're imagining things. Caren is your friend. She's a nobody."

"She's somebody to you," I countered. "Enough to risk a war."

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. "You say a word to your father, Lana, and you'll regret it. This is my city. You are my wife. You do as I say."

"Remove it," I commanded.

He blinked. "What?"

"Remove the tattoo. Today. Or I send the photo to Chicago."

He stared at me, searching for the submissive girl he thought he married. He didn't find her.

"Fine," he gritted out through clenched teeth. "I'll get it covered. But don't you ever threaten me again."

He stormed into the shower, slamming the door behind him.

My phone buzzed against the marble vanity. Another text from Caren.

Hope the honey water worked! Is he awake? I'm worried about him.

I looked at the bathroom door, listening to the water running.

I didn't reply. I was done playing sister.

Lana POV

The tattoo parlor was tucked away in South Philly, a grimy establishment that smelled of antiseptic and stale smoke.

It was raining hard outside, a gray sheet of water that matched the suffocating tension inside the room.

Jameson sat in the worn leather chair, shirtless. The artist was setting up the gun. The high-pitched buzz of the needle was the only sound in the room, grating against the silence.

I stood by the door, arms crossed over my chest. I wasn't leaving until I saw that letter 'C' disappear under black ink.

Jameson's phone rang.

He looked at it. He didn't pick up.

It rang again. And again.

"Answer it," I said, my voice devoid of warmth. "It might be 'business'."

He glared at me before sliding his finger across the screen.

"What?" he snapped.

Then his face went ghostly white.

"Where? Which hospital? I'm coming."

He hung up and bolted out of the chair, grabbing his shirt from the counter.

"We're leaving," he said.

"No," I said, stepping in to block the doorway. "You sit down and you cover that mark."

"Move, Lana," he growled. "Caren was in a car accident. She's in the ER."

"And?" I asked, arching a brow. "She's in Chicago. You're in Philadelphia. What are you going to do, fly there and hold her hand?"

"She's here," he said, slipping up. "She came to visit... family."

Lies. She had no family here. She was here for him.

"If you walk out that door," I said, my voice shaking with suppressed rage, "you are choosing her. You are choosing to insult me and my family."

"She could be dying!" he shouted.

"She's a rat," I said coldly. "Let her die."

Jameson looked at me with pure hatred. It was the first honest look he had given me in years.

"Get out of my way."

He shoved past me, his shoulder colliding hard with mine. He didn't care about the code. He didn't care about the marriage.

I followed him out to the sidewalk. The rain soaked my dress instantly, plastering the fabric to my skin.

"Jameson!" I screamed over the crash of thunder. "Look at your chest! You are branded like cattle! If you go to her, don't come back."

He opened the door of his black SUV. He looked back at me, rain dripping from his nose.

He looked at the tattoo on his chest, then at me.

He got in the car.

The engine roared to life, and he sped away, tires screeching on the wet asphalt.

He left his wife standing in the rain for his mistress.

I stood there until I was shivering. My phone pinged.

It was a picture message from Caren.

She was in a hospital bed, a small bandage on her forehead. She looked fine. But it was the hand holding hers that mattered.

Jameson's hand. I recognized the heavy watch. I recognized the rings.

He's so worried about me, the caption read. Thank God for friends.

I deleted the message. I didn't need it. I had seen enough.

I hailed a cab. I wasn't going to the hotel. I was going to the estate.

I had work to do.

Lana POV

The Cavallaro estate was more than just a home; it was a fortress, a gilded cage built of cold marble and silence.

I had been living within its walls for three months.

Jameson thought he had won. He mistook my silence for submission, assuming that because I hadn't run crying to my father, I had accepted my place as a decorative fixture. He thought I was weak.

He didn't know I was building a case.

I sat in the library, the heavy oak door bolted shut against the rest of the house. On the mahogany desk, the landline blinked red.

I lifted the receiver.

"Hello?"

Silence greeted me, followed by the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing. A woman's breathing.

"I know it's you, Caren," I said.

"Is he there?" Her voice was dripping with false sweetness.

"He's out," I lied smoothly. "Earning the money you so enjoy spending."

"He bought me a condo," she bragged. "Did you know? It has a view of the river."

"That's nice," I said, my finger pressing the record button on the small, discreet device I had rigged to the phone. "Does he visit often?"

"Every night," she purred. "He tells me he can't stand touching you. He says you're cold. Like a statue."

"Statues last forever," I countered, my voice devoid of emotion. "Whores are seasonal."

She laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "He calls me his Lucky Charm. Did you know that?"

I looked over at the corner of the room. Leo, Jameson's African Grey parrot, shifted on his perch, bobbing his head.

"Lucky Charm," the bird squawked, a perfect, haunting mimicry. "Pretty Caren. Lucky Charm."

The bird had been hearing it for months. Before the wedding. Before the contract.

"I have to go," Caren said suddenly. "He's pulling into the driveway. He hates it when I'm on the phone with you. He says it stresses me out."

The line went dead.

I stopped the recording and transferred the file to the encrypted folder on my laptop.

Just then, I heard the front door open. Jameson's heavy footsteps echoed in the grand hall.

"Lana!" he called out. "I'm home."

He sounded cheerful. The dutiful husband.

I glanced down at the wastebasket beside the desk. Inside, wrapped carefully in a tissue, was a plastic stick bearing two pink lines.

I rested a hand on my stomach.

I was carrying the heir. The baby that would cement the alliance. The baby that would make Jameson the undisputed Don one day.

But Jameson was a traitor.

He walked into the library, bringing the scent of rain and another woman with him.

"Hey," he said, leaning down to kiss my cheek. I didn't flinch. "What are you doing?"

"Just reading," I said, closing the laptop.

"We have the family dinner tonight," he reminded me. "My parents. Your parents are flying in. It's a big night."

"Yes," I said. "It is."

He didn't notice the glacier behind my eyes. He was too arrogant to see the knife until it was already buried between his ribs.

"Wear the red dress," he commanded softly. "I like you in red."

"Okay," I agreed.

I would wear red.

The color of war.