My chest tightened. I kept my head lowered, pretending I didn't notice, but Marcello did.

His voice turned sharp. "If you two keep treating Arianna like this, then don't expect us to come back again."

The room went silent until Carlo slammed his hand against the table, making me flinch. The silverware rattled. Two soldiers stationed near the dining room entrance shifted their weight but kept their eyes forward. "Watch your mouth. Are you really saying you'd turn your back on your family for this woman?"

Before I could step away, Marcello caught my hand, threading his fingers through mine, holding me still. "Father, I've said this many times. Arianna is the woman I love. The one person I can't bear to hurt. I won't even raise my voice at her, and yet you give her this coldness every time. Do you know what that does to me?" His grip on my hand tightened. "If this happens again, I won't just walk out of this house. I'll walk away from this family for good."

The Don of the Castellano Family, a man whose name made capos across the city lower their voices, but right then he sounded like a devoted husband willing to burn his whole world for me.

Pathetic. He thought I didn't know about his affair.

The room went quiet after Marcello threw his words out like a knife. He looked like the perfect protective husband, standing there like a shield in front of me. But I didn't feel safe. I just felt… tired.

Giovanna sighed and finally muttered, "Fine. Let's eat first."

At the table, the only noise was the clink of silver against porcelain. Giovanna kept making those little annoyed sounds, and my hand tightened around my fork. I knew it was coming.

Sure enough, she dropped her fork and said, "It's been nine months. Enough grieving. You lost a daughter, fine. But it's time to give us a grandson. You can't just end the Castellano bloodline."

Carlo nodded, cold eyes fixed on me. "That child died because you didn't care for her properly. A simple stomach ache, and she never came home from the hospital. Stop playing the victim, Arianna. Conceive again and do it right this time."

The words sliced straight through me, but before I could open my mouth, Marcello set his fork down. His voice was calm, but sharp enough to cut. "I already told you. Arianna is scared of pain. I won't let her suffer like that. If we never have kids, so be it."

Their faces dropped, heavy with disdain, and the air grew thick. They were about to start another round when I finally spoke. My voice was steady, even.

"You'll have a grandchild in half a month."

The room froze. Three pairs of eyes cut toward me. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock ticked into the silence.

Marcello squeezed my hand, his face painted with that sweet, fake concern. "Sweetheart… You don't have to force yourself for me. I'll protect you."

I almost laughed. Protect me? He couldn't even stop himself from running into Serafina's arms every chance he got.

I smiled anyway. "You two want a grandson so badly. Let's make it happen for you."

They softened instantly, pleased with my answer. But Marcello looked uneasy, like he could smell something wrong but didn't know where it was coming from. His thumb pressed flat against the silver ring on his right hand, holding it still.

Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and I caught the name. Serafina.

"Marcello, some guy wants a quickie, would it be okay?"

I counted in my head. One. Two. Three.

He stood right on cue. "Arianna, I have to handle something at the club. Stay and finish dinner. I'll come back for you later."

He didn't wait for me to answer. Just grabbed his jacket and left. I heard the front door close, then the crunch of gravel under tires, then nothing. The bodyguard who always trailed him followed without a word.

The second the door shut, Carlo and Giovanna dropped the fake politeness. Giovanna's fingers drifted to the string of black pearls at her throat, a single precise touch, as if confirming something was still in place.

"We'll give you less than a month. If you don't conceive again, don't ever dare show your face in this house. You come from nothing. Both your parents gone, no name, no wealth. Without Marcello, you're no one. Don't think we'll tolerate you forever."

Their words kept cutting, sharper each time, until it felt like the walls themselves were pressing in. The dining room of the Castellano estate, with its oil paintings of dead patriarchs and its heavy curtains that smelled of old money and older secrets, had never felt smaller.

And Marcello? He never came back.

Marcello finally showed up that evening, calm as ever, like nothing happened. We got into the car, the leather still warm from the sun.

I glanced out the window and asked lightly, "You done with work?"

He hesitated, just for a breath, then said softly, "Yeah." His fingers tapped against the wheel, steady, rhythmic. That was his little tell when he was in a good mood.

The silence stretched, and then he asked, "Did my parents give you trouble after I left?"

I was about to answer when my eyes caught something under the seat. A pair of torn silk stockings. Not mine.

So that's where he'd been. I knew about Serafina, but I hadn't expected he'd use this very car.

Seven years of marriage and I'd always been… careful. I wasn't wild, I wasn't daring. Sometimes I even asked him if he wanted me to change, if I was boring him.

Back then, he just held me close, kissing my hair, whispering, "Sweetheart, I only want you. Even if you wore rags, you'd still be the one I'd choose. Don't force yourself to be anything else. I love you the way you are."

But the man who said those words now reeked of lies.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "What do you think?"

He thought I was talking about his parents. He had no idea I'd already seen through him.

He suddenly hit the brakes, pulled me into his arms. "I'm sorry, Arianna. I shouldn't have left you alone. I promise, it won't happen again."

His embrace felt like a cage.

I pressed my hands against his chest, pushing him off gently. "Just drive, Marcello. I'm tired."

Because I knew deep down. There was no future left for us.

The moment I stepped into the house, I froze.

Serafina was lounging on the sofa in a silky nightgown, eating chips like she held the deed to the place. Her bare feet were tucked beneath her, one strap slipping off her shoulder with practiced carelessness.

"Didn't you say you had a party tonight? Said you weren't coming home?"

She gave me this shy little smile. "Oh, Arianna, I forgot to mention. I had a fight with my boyfriend, so I went to the party to piss him off. Told him about it, but he didn't care. Then, the second I got there, he showed up, dragged me out."

Her fingers flicked at her collar, and the fabric slipped just enough to show the marks on her skin. Hickeys. Fresh. She gave me a sly look like it was some sort of prize.

"I didn't expect him to be so jealous," she said sweetly. "We ended up making out in the car. Three times."

My nails bit into my palms so hard it hurt. But I kept my voice even. "When did you get a boyfriend? You never said a word."

She just laughed lightly, tossing her hair. "Oh, about nine months ago after I came back from abroad and my brother introduced him to me."

Nine months. The exact time she moved into this house. The exact time Marcello's so-called friend Giulio asked him to "look after his sister." What a joke. She'd latched onto him the first day.

I couldn't stop my breathing from turning heavy. The rage sat right under my skin. And that's when I felt it. Marcello's hands, heavy on my shoulders.

"Sweetheart, you've had a rough day. Let me run you a bath. You need to rest."

He guided me toward the bathroom like nothing was wrong.

I slipped inside, closed the door, and started undressing, the thought of soaking in the tub the only thing keeping me steady. Then I realized I'd forgotten clean clothes.

When I opened the door, the world stopped.

Not far away, Marcello was on top of Serafina. His hand ripped at her nightgown like it was paper, his mouth pressed against her skin while his grip locked on her waist. The hallway light caught the silver ring on his right hand, the old Don's signet, pressing into the curve of her hip like a brand.

She tilted her head back, letting out these soft little moans. "Easy… Arianna's still in the shower. Didn't you get enough in the car earlier?"

He growled low, voice sharp, possessive. "Shut up! If you even think about letting another man touch you, you'll regret it."

She giggled, wicked and pleased, and then her eyes slid to me. Standing there, frozen.

"Alright," she purred, "I won't. I'm all yours. You're so jealous, babe, hmm?"

That was enough. I grabbed my clothes, shut the bathroom door, and locked it.

The water was hot when I slid into the tub, but it didn't burn as much as the memory replaying in my head.

Seven years ago. Our honeymoon on that island. I'd looked just once at a man with abs. Marcello lost his mind so he kept me locked inside the suite for a week. The bodyguards stood outside the door the entire time, and not one of them knocked. Not once. In this world, when the Don closed a door, it stayed closed.

When the bed broke and the supplies ran out, he pulled me close. "Arianna, I've got everything you need. Don't look at anyone else. Just promise me."

I had promised him. Over and over.

And since then, I never dared to even glance at another man. But now, he was just as obsessed. Just not with me. With her.

I sank deeper into the water and let out a shaky breath.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, Serafina was gone. Only Marcello was sitting there, calm as if nothing had happened. The house was quiet in that particular way it got when the guards had been told to make themselves scarce.

On the table, there was a plate of neatly sliced fruit and a steaming cup of ginger tea. The sight made my chest tighten.

He stood and handed me the cup. "I know your period's close. This will help with the cramps."

The heat from the cup seeped into my hands, but inside, I felt ice cold. How could he act so normal? Just minutes ago, he was tearing at Serafina's clothes. Now here he was, pretending to be the perfect husband. The Don of the Castellano Family, performing devotion with the same hands that had just been on another woman's body.

I didn't sleep much that night. My mind kept circling back to the same question: how many faces does he have?

Sometime before dawn, I must've drifted off. A sudden shout yanked me awake.

"Arianna!"

He jolted up, hands searching wildly in the dark until he found me. His chest heaved, his grip crushing me against him. "Don't go. Please… don't leave me."

I froze in his arms. "What's wrong with you?"

His eyes were red, his breath still uneven. "I dreamt you walked away from me. It was hell, Arianna. I woke up and you were here. Thank God you're here."

I looked down, words heavy on my tongue. I wanted to tell him the dream would come true soon. But I stayed quiet. My thumb found the inside of my left wrist and traced the skin there, slow, deliberate, while he held me in the dark and didn't notice.

Maybe that nightmare shook him, because the next morning, he didn't let me out of his sight. He insisted on driving me himself, the armored sedan pulling out of the compound gates with a trail car following, like he was afraid I'd disappear the moment he blinked.

The moment we stepped into Marcello's office at the Castellano headquarters, I froze. His entire desk was covered in pictures of me. Different angles, different days, some I didn't even know he'd taken. They were arranged with an almost ritualistic precision, fanned across the dark mahogany like surveillance photos pinned to a war board, except every single one was of his wife.

I felt a chill run through me. Before I could say anything, I felt him behind me. His arms slid around my waist, his lips brushing my neck.

"Arianna," he whispered, voice low and smooth, "a lot of women throw themselves at me. But when I look at these, I remember who I belong to. You don't have to worry. I'm all yours."

I kept my eyes on the pictures, my lips pressed tight. I couldn't bring myself to answer. The room smelled of his cologne and old leather, and somewhere beyond the heavy office door, I could hear the muffled rhythm of the building, soldiers and associates and accountants keeping the Castellano machine running. None of them knew what their Don's desk looked like. None of them would have believed it.

A knock came at the door. Mateo's voice followed. "Boss, the sit-down's about to start."

Marcello sighed, reluctant, and held me a moment longer before letting go. "Stay here, baby. Walk around, make yourself comfortable. I'll be back soon."

I nodded, though my chest was heavy. The last thing I wanted was to sit in his office surrounded by my own face. So I wandered. Floor after floor, pretending to look, pretending to care. Past the legitimate offices that laundered the Family's reputation, past conference rooms where men in expensive suits discussed shipping routes that never appeared on any manifest.

By noon, my phone buzzed. I picked it up quickly, my heart racing when I saw the caller ID.

"Ms. Arianna Cooper," the woman said politely, "your application for immigration has been approved. Please come to the consulate to collect your visa."

I opened my mouth to answer, but a voice I knew too well cut in from behind me.

"Visa?"

My blood ran cold.

I turned slowly, and there he was. Marcello. His face had gone pale, like someone had pulled the ground out from under him.

"What visa?" he asked, his voice low but trembling.

My heart skipped, but I forced a small smile. "Not mine. A friend of mine's planning to move abroad. She just called to ask me about it."

For a second, he just stared at me, like he didn't quite believe it. Then suddenly, he pulled me into his arms, holding me so tight I could barely breathe. His body was actually shaking. The silver ring on his right hand pressed cold against my spine where his fist clenched the fabric of my dress.

"Arianna," he whispered into my hair, his voice raw, "don't ever leave me. I thought for a moment you were going to disappear. I can't… I can't live without you."

I rested my hand lightly on his back, pretending to soothe him. On the outside, I smiled faintly, calm and steady. Inside, though, my heart was already somewhere else. I knew the truth. I was leaving soon.

That afternoon, while he was tied up with the Family's capos in the war room on the second floor, I slipped away. I went straight to the consulate office and signed the last of my papers. My hands were trembling, but my mind had never been clearer.

That night was the Castellano Family's annual gala. Everyone was there. Allied families, business fronts, politicians on the payroll, soldiers in tailored suits who looked almost civilized under the chandeliers. The grand ballroom of the Castellano hotel glittered with lights and champagne glasses.

I wore something simple. Quiet. I wanted no attention. Serafina, on the other hand, walked in wearing a blood-red dress that clung to every curve. All eyes followed her.

I caught Marcello choking a little on his drink when he saw men crowding around her. He smiled like a perfect host, but his jaw ticked. His rage was simmering under the surface.

Guests kept whispering about me, how lucky I was. How Marcello was "so obsessed" with me. Allied bosses toasted to his devotion, calling me the envy of every woman in the room.

When a man offered Serafina a drink, Marcello stepped in, took the glass, and downed it himself. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Can't risk my friend's sister being taken advantage of," he said smoothly.

Serafina chuckled, tilting her head. "Careful, Marcello. If you keep acting like this, Arianna might get jealous."

I smiled, my voice soft but firm. "No, I won't. I know Marcello loves me. He can't live without me."

He glanced at me then, like he didn't know whether to be flattered or afraid.

Then I noticed Serafina's wrist. She was twisting a bracelet identical to mine. The thin gold caught the chandelier light, and my stomach turned to ice.

Serafina noticed my stare. For a moment, her smile faltered. Then she quickly excused herself and slipped out of the ballroom.

I watched Marcello grow restless, pulling out his phone under the table. Moments later, he stood, putting on that fake polite smile. "Excuse me, urgent call," he muttered, before leaving too.

I knew exactly where he was going.

When I tried to follow, one of Marcello's business associates from the legitimate side of the hotel chain, married but notorious for wandering hands, blocked my way. He kept me in pointless conversation, smirking, stalling.

I forced a polite smile. "I'm not feeling well. I think I'll head home early. Don't trouble yourself with giving me a ride. I'll grab a car."

I slipped past, my heels clicking softly against the marble floor. That's when I heard it. A door left slightly ajar. Voices, gasps, the unmistakable rhythm of bodies colliding.

I froze, then leaned just enough to peek inside.

Serafina was straddling Marcello, riding him like she owned him. His hands gripped her thighs, his head thrown back, moaning.

Her eyes slid to mine. She saw me. And she smiled.

"Tell me, Marcello," she purred, loud enough for me to hear. "Do you really love me? If not, I'll go fuck your business partner right now."

Marcello groaned, desperate, breathless. "I fucking love you, Serafina."

Serafina's smirk deepened, her gaze locked on me like she knew I was there. "Then get me pregnant. Do it inside me."

His voice broke into a growl. "Yes, sweetheart," he groaned, slamming harder into her.

My vision blurred with tears. I held my phone at my side, the camera already recording. Every word, every filthy confession, every betrayal, I caught it all.

Before they noticed me, I turned and walked away, silent as a shadow.

Back at the compound, I pulled out my suitcase. My hands shook as I unzipped it, but my heart was steady. My thumb traced the scar on the inside of my left wrist, slow, deliberate. Remembering who I had been. Then I stopped, and I packed.

This time, I wasn't just thinking about leaving. This time, I really was.

I sat in the airport lounge, my passport and boarding pass tight in my hand, suitcase by my side. The terminal hummed with the anonymous noise of strangers who had no idea that the Don of the Castellano Family's wife was about to vanish. My phone buzzed. Of course, it was him. I took a breath and answered.

"Where are you, baby? Mateo said you weren't—"

"I wasn't feeling well," I said softly. "Bad headache. I went home to rest."

"I'll send Mateo over with some medicine."

"No need," I cut in, keeping my voice steady. "I'm done taking those. I just want to sleep." I let a small pause hang before adding, "But before you get home, there's a little present waiting for you in our room. Please open it."

I could picture it in my head. On the bedside table: the divorce papers, our wedding rings, and the USB with him and Serafina.

He let out a low chuckle. I heard a muffled sound on his end, a moan, and my blood ran cold.

"I will, sweetheart," he said, voice laced with something I already knew. "But I can't go home tonight. Got… important business."

And then I heard it. Serafina's laugh, right there, behind him.

"I'll be home tomorrow," he added like nothing was wrong.

I smiled faintly, my voice calm. "Yeah, sure."

"I love you, sweetheart."

"Mm. Sleep well," I whispered, then ended the call before he could say another word. My hand trembled, but my chest felt lighter than it had in years.

When the boarding gate opened, I stood, clutching my passport like it was the only thing keeping me alive. My phone lit up again with his name. I didn't hesitate. I powered it off.

Stepping onto the plane, I finally felt free. I whispered under my breath, "Goodbye, Marcello. I'm not yours anymore."