He let out a scoff, his eyes trailing lazily down Ginevra's thigh, still exposed below her over-the-knee boots.

"That is impressive? The best part — oh, you haven't even seen it yet."

Tomasso smacked his lips, clearly envious.

"When I hit your level, I'm keeping a hundred just like her!"

"But hey, your wife isn't bad either. Even without makeup, she's a stunner."

The second Tomasso mentioned me, Domenico's face hardened.

"Don't even think about touching my wife. Unless you're ready to lose everything."

The shift was instant. Not a raised voice. Not a threat you could point to in a courtroom. Just something in the air that changed, the way a room goes cold when a gun clears a holster. Tomasso backtracked fast, nodding and stammering apologies, swearing on his mother he'd make sure I'd never find out anything.

But at this point, I don't care anymore.

I turned and bolted, desperate to get out of there, only to bump straight into one of the Family's delivery runners rushing in with garment boxes.

"Mrs. Moretti—"

"Shh!" I cut him off. "Don't tell anyone you saw me. Unless you want to explain to the Don why you couldn't keep your mouth shut."

I didn't even know how I got back home. When I finally looked up, I was already standing outside the door of the Moretti estate.

One of my shoes was missing, and I looked like a mess.

When I checked the time, I realized eight hours had gone by since the shoot started.

I drove to the closest store outside Family territory and cleared the shelves of every bottle of alcohol they had.

After paying, I stepped outside — and as if fate wasn't done screwing with me, I ran into my husband's mistress.

The way her eyes lit up when she saw me. That smug little gleam. Her fingers drifted to the hollow of her throat, touching the pendant that hung there, the one I recognized because the jeweler who made it had offered to show me the design first.

But her words? Sickly sweet.

"Oh my god, you're Mrs. Moretti, right? I've been such a huge admirer of yours for ages! I even sent a gift when you and the Don had your wedding — the one every Boss on the Eastern Seaboard attended! I can't believe we live in the same neighborhood!"

"You know, I used to be really jealous of your love story. I mean, who wouldn't dream of a husband like yours? And guess what? My dream came true!"

She giggled, tucking her hair behind her ear in this fake, innocent way.

Her voice dropped to this conspiratorial whisper like we were best friends sharing secrets.

"My apartment here? It's a gift from him — basically just like a little 'hello' present, you know? Right here in Moretti territory, under all those soldiers' noses."

"Anyway, hey, can I get your number? We should totally get together sometime — maybe go to the spa, something fun!"

I didn't want to let her see me break, so I kept my face blank and gave her my number.

After adding me, she hooked her arm through mine like we were best friends. As if it was a joke, I walked into the neighborhood together with my husband's mistress, past the gate where the soldiers on watch recognized my face and straightened, past the manicured hedges that bordered the compound, her arm threaded through mine like a knife dressed in silk.

She kept chattering in my ear, talking about how her boyfriend gave her an apartment, a front business of her own, and even scripts written just for her.

I just nodded along. Finally, at my front door, I managed to escape, muttering a quick goodbye before shutting myself inside.

The second I was alone, I cracked open a few bottles and drank, hoping to disappear into oblivion. The house was enormous and silent. The kind of silence that only the Don's residence achieves — thick walls, soundproofed rooms, a world designed so that nothing ugly is ever heard.

But it didn't take long before my phone buzzed with a message. From her.

[Hey, Serafina, do you like roses? Today's shoot went so well, and my boyfriend says he's buying out every rose in the city to celebrate! That's a lot, right? I can send some to you if you'd like!]

I stared at that shameless message for a moment before deleting it without replying.

By the time Domenico got home, I'd already had quite a bit to drink.

He froze in the doorway, his eyes wide. He didn't even take off his shoes, just crossed the marble foyer and went straight to the kitchen to make hangover soup for me.

I grabbed his hand as he passed by and pulled him toward me like a brat.

"Babe, I want roses. Can you get me some? Like right now."

He let out a chuckle. But his eyes — they were empty.

"Why the sudden interest in flowers? Can I get them for you tomorrow, babe? I've got so much to handle tonight, you know?"

"Did you drink too much?"

Tears welled up in my eyes as I shook my head bitterly.

"You can't, can you? Oh well, never mind. Go ahead, finish your work."

"Babe, what's wrong? Didn't you sleep well last night? How about you head to bed early tonight? I'll make you soup for your hangover first, but after that, I've really got to get back."

He kept asking me what was wrong, but I didn't say another word.

What was the point? Nothing I said would change a damn thing. He was the Don. He did what he wanted. He always had.

He watched me sip the hangover soup he made, and then just like that, he left me alone without a word. The front door clicked shut. An engine turned over in the drive. And then nothing but that terrible, soundproofed silence again, pressing against every wall of the house he'd built around me.

About an hour later, my husband's mistress texted me to open the door.

At the doorway, there they were. Nine hundred and ninety-nine roses.

I bit my lip and stomped on them like a woman possessed, crushing them under my feet. Again and again, until petals were ground into the marble, scattering across the foyer like a massacre of red, and I was too exhausted to stand.

Then my phone buzzed again. Her, sending another text.

This time, she sent a picture of dinner: a perfectly set table, candles glowing softly, and a homemade cake. I noticed my husband's hand in the shot. Still wearing his wedding ring.

I stumbled back into the living room, grabbed the leftover bottle of whiskey, and drained it in one go.

I sank drunk on the couch and dialed the broker handling the Amalfi compound. That stupid island. Nostalgia di Serafina. Once the symbol of our happiness, now it just made my skin crawl.

When the call ended, I passed out on the couch.

I woke up to the soft press of familiar lips on mine. Domenico's breath smelled faintly like cream.

"What's with all these cancellation texts? What'd you cancel?"

There was a nervous edge to his voice. A hairline fracture in the authority that never cracked in front of his soldiers. Only here. Only with me.

I sat up and leaned back, putting space between us. My voice was calm, almost detached.

"Oh, nothing. Just scanned some random codes yesterday. Figured I'd cancel them before they tried scamming me."

I glanced toward the doorway. The massacre of roses from last night had already been cleaned up by the staff. No petals, no stems, no evidence. The household ran like his organization: problems vanished before sunrise.

I let out a small breath of relief.

"Did you finish your work?"

He nodded. His shoulders relaxed at my response before heading into the kitchen to make breakfast.

I picked up my phone to check on the island sale, but instead, I saw a new post circulating through the wives' network. Some woman who'd spoken against Ginevra the other day had now written this long, dramatic apology. The reason? Ginevra had just been announced as the new face of Maison Seraphine.

My brand. Named after me.

Breakfast tasted like cardboard, and Domenico wasn't doing much better. He spent most of the meal staring at his phone, this faint, unreadable smile tugging at his lips. His thumb drifted along the edge of his jaw, slow, absent. Whatever he was reading pleased him in a way breakfast with his wife could not.

When breakfast was done, he suddenly froze for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

"Babe, something came up. Business I can't push. Don't worry about the dishes. I'll handle them later."

Before I could say anything, he'd already slipped on his shoes and was out the door. He was in such a hurry that he didn't even take off his apron. He didn't even have time to ask me why I'd been drinking last night.

Well, I guess there's only so much space in one heart. Once someone else moves in, there's no room left for you.

Not even five minutes after he left, Ginevra's name lit up my phone again. This time, it was a photo of two sets of lingerie laid out on a bed. One black, one white.

Hey! Which one do you think I should wear? If it were your husband, which would he like more?

I didn't bother replying. I was too busy packing.

By the time I finished, every trace of me was gone from that estate. Twenty years of a woman's life, reduced to two suitcases and a silence so complete even the soldiers at the gate wouldn't know what had changed until it was too late.

On the way to the airstrip, I got a message from Domenico.

You sold the compound? Why? What's going on?

I typed my reply: Make sure you're home to accept my gift. Oh, and Domenico? You're out of chances.

I turned my wedding ring one final time. Then I stopped.

I slid the heavy Sicilian gold band off my finger, held it for a moment in my palm, and placed it on the leather seat beside me. It sat there, still warm.

Then I turned off my phone, pulled out the SIM card, and dropped it in the nearest trash.

Boarding the plane, I felt lighter.