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.

Lana POV

The dining room was bathed in the cold brilliance of a crystal chandelier that likely cost more than most people's houses. The table was set with gleaming silver and bone china.

My father sat at the head of the table, presiding like a king. Jameson's father sat opposite him. The tension was always there, a low hum of violence vibrating beneath the polite conversation, but tonight it felt heavier.

Jameson sat next to me, his hand resting with a heavy, possessive weight on the back of my chair.

"To family," Jameson's father toasted, raising his wine glass. "And to the future."

"To the future," everyone echoed.

I took a sip of water.

Then, the double doors opened.

Caren walked in.

The room plunged into silence. She wasn't invited. She wasn't family.

She was holding a white box. She wore a modest dress, acting the part of the humble servant's daughter to perfection.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt," she said, her voice trembling just enough to sound sincere. "I just... I made a cake. For Lana. It's her favorite. I wanted to apologize for missing the wedding."

My mother looked confused. "Caren? What are you doing here?"

Jameson stiffened beside me. He looked from me to Caren, naked panic rising in his eyes.

"I just wanted to make peace," Caren said, placing the box on the table. She opened it. It was a cannoli cake.

"How sweet," my mother said.

I knew Caren. I knew she didn't bake. And I knew she hated me.

"Go on, Lana," Caren said, smiling. "Try it."

I looked at her. Her eyes were hard, daring me.

I cut a small piece. I knew what she was doing. She was testing her power. She wanted to see if I would submit and eat from her hand.

I took a bite.

The taste was sweet, creamy.

And then, the fire ignited.

My throat tightened violently. My tongue swelled.

Peanuts.

I was deathly allergic. Caren knew this. We had grown up together. She knew even a trace amount could kill me.

I dropped the fork. It clattered loudly against the china.

"Lana?" my father asked, his voice sharp.

I grabbed my throat. I couldn't breathe. My windpipe was a thin straw that was collapsing in on itself.

"She's choking!" my mother screamed.

I looked at Jameson. I clawed at his arm.

"Epi..." I wheezed. "Pen..."

I pointed a shaking finger to my purse on the side table.

Jameson stood up. He looked at me, gasping for air, turning blue. Then he looked at Caren.

Caren stood there, eyes wide, feigning shock. But her mouth was curved in a tiny, imperceptible smirk.

If Jameson saved me, he would have to admit Caren had poisoned me. He would have to expose her.

He hesitated.

For three seconds-three eternities-he did nothing. He just watched me die.

He was weighing the life of his mistress against the life of his wife.

My vision started to tunnel. The edges of the room dissolved into black.

"Jameson! Do something!" his father roared.

That snapped him out of it. He lunged for the purse.

But it was too late. The darkness had already swallowed me.

The last thing I saw was Caren's face, triumphant. And the last thing I felt was the crushing realization that my husband had wanted me to die.