I’m the Vettori family princess. The only one.

It was our fifth anniversary. A big dinner party at the estate.

A waiter spilled red wine on my husband Marco, heir to the Rossi family.

My best friend, Sofia, slapped the waiter. Hard.

Then she was all over Marco, helping him out of his jacket. Her hand lingered on his waist. A second too long.

I just stood there, watching. Sofia saw me.

"I was just closer, that's all. Helping him clean up. Don't overthink it."

I just smiled. Grabbed my glass. I went to make the rounds with the old dons from the other families. I would finish this night with my head held high.

Later that night, Marco crawled into my bed, stinking of booze. His hands were on my waist. He wanted sex.

I pushed him off.

"The alliance is over," I said, my voice dead. "We're finished."

Marco sobered up fast. His face went cold.

"I'm trying to apologize here. You're divorcing me because Sofia helped me with my jacket?"

I laughed.

He didn’t get it. Not until I threw the proof of his betrayal in his face. Not until I cut him off from my family.

Then he was on his knees, crying, begging me to forgive him.

I’d just told my husband we were through. I saw the way he looked at my best friend tonight. He went ballistic.

Marco’s hands froze in mid-air.

The lust on his face evaporated. In its place was pure shock. Rage. Like I’d just spat on him.

"Isabella, what kind of sick joke is this?"

He sat up straight, his brow furrowed, his eyes burning with outrage.

"I'm apologizing here. I'm trying to make things right. And you want to divorce me over a jacket? End the alliance between our families?"

I didn’t say a word. Just watched him perform, my eyes like ice.

My silence was gasoline on his fire.

His voice got louder, with a little whine in it.

"Since we started dating, when have I ever not done exactly what you wanted? Five years of marriage, and I haven't just been your husband. I've been a fucking lapdog for you and the entire Vettori family!"

He jabbed a finger at his own chest, moving closer to me.

"How many times did I screw over my own family to protect your interests? I put your family before my own! And now, because your friend was nice enough to help me with a stain, you're gonna throw away five years of my life?"

"Work?"

A small laugh escaped my lips, but it didn't reach my eyes.

"Cut the act, Marco."

"You talk about loyalty? At the start of the party, Don Antonio's sleazy nephew just looked at Sofia. You shifted your body to block his view without even thinking. That's what a man does for his woman."

Marco’s mouth opened, but I didn’t give him the chance.

"When the main course came, you passed Sofia your sharpest steak knife. You even started cutting her steak for her. It was smooth. Natural. You don’t even pass me a glass of water at home unless I ask."

The color drained from Marco's face. His eyes started to dart around the room.

"And the whiskey." I took a step closer, staring right into his eyes. "Sofia only drinks '82 Macallan, no ice. Not even the Gallo family remembers to stock that year. But you had the waiter put a glass right at her seat before she even arrived."

"It's called being polite! She's your friend!" he shot back, but his voice was weak.

"Polite?"

I snatched the fancy picture frame from the table—our wedding photo from five years ago.

CRACK.

I slammed it face down on the wood.

"Look at the photo, Marco. Look closer."

I pointed at the shattered glass, my voice freezing cold.

"Your hand isn't on my waist. It's behind me. Your fingers are brushing the back of her dress. And look at her. She’s leaning into you, not me."

Marco stared at the photo, his chest heaving.

The truth was laid bare. Every dirty little secret, smacking him in the face.

He had no defense. Shame turned to rage.

"Enough!"

He grabbed his expensive custom suit jacket and threw it on the sofa. The veins on his neck bulged.

"Isabella, you're insane! A spoiled, paranoid, crazy bitch!"

He stormed to the door and grabbed the handle.

"You want me to leave? Fine, I'll leave! But you better get your head straight before you do something stupid!"

He looked back over his shoulder. The fake love was gone. All that was left was a naked threat. The arrogance of power.

"Tomorrow, I'm made Don of the Rossi family. It's a big deal for the entire New York underworld."

He glared at me like I was just a stupid rock in his path.

"I'll give you one day to think about your place. Tomorrow's a big day. Don't do something you'll regret. Don't make a mess so big we can't clean it up."

The door slammed shut, shaking the walls.

The room was dead silent again.

I stared at the closed door and picked up my phone.

"I need a location," I said quietly into the phone. "I want to know where the future Godfather is sleeping tonight."

"Boss, he's at The Crown. Gallo turf." The voice on the other end was my guy, low and steady. "Top floor. Sofia's private suite."

I hung up and started the car.

The lights of New York City blurred past my window.

I gripped the steering wheel. My mind went back seven years.

Back then, all I loved was skiing.

The Alps. Far away from my family's blood and bullshit.

I hated the men in suits with guns hidden under their jackets. Hated the fancy dinners that were just a front for backroom deals and bloodshed.

Sofia used to laugh at me. "You're a princess, always out on some mountain. What happens if something goes wrong? The family won't even have an heir."

I’d just wave her off and fly down the slopes. My own world.

Then the avalanche hit.

Marco appeared out of the storm. A ski patrol rescuer. He used his body to shield me, digging us out.

His eyes were clean. None of the ambition and bloodlust I was used to seeing.

"Are you okay, beautiful lady?"

His smile was like sunshine.

I thought I’d found the one.

Later, I found out he was a candidate to lead the Rossi family.

A small family, trying to survive in the Vettori shadow.

I didn't care.

He told me he hated the violence, too. That he wanted to legitimize his family's business. He said his dream was to travel the world with me, to escape this filthy kingdom we were born into.

"I just want you, Isabella. Forget being a Godfather, forget family honor. None of it means a thing next to your smile."

Those were his exact words.

For that "gentle soul," I went against my father for the first time.

My father ground his cigar into the mahogany desk. "Isabella," he warned, his voice like gravel, "a lion doesn't lie down with a lamb. He's playing you."

I didn't believe him.

I used all the Vettori family resources—my dowry from my father.

I pulled Marco out of the mud. I cleared out his rivals, gave him the funds, and practically gift-wrapped the Godfather's throne for him.

Then we got married.

For the first two years, he was the man I fell in love with. He loved me, spoiled me.

But slowly, after my father died, he changed.

He got cold. Distant. He started acting more and more like the kind of Godfather I always hated.

I told myself it was the pressure of running the family.

I told myself he just needed time to adjust.

Until tonight. Until I saw the way he looked at Sofia.

That look used to be for me.

I slammed on the brakes. The car skidded to a stop at the back entrance of The Crown club.

This was Gallo turf. But my name was the only pass I needed. A Vettori goes where she wants.

I took a small listening device from my purse. My father taught me: always be ready for the worst.

The elevator went straight to the top floor.

Sofia's private suite was at the end of the hall.

I pressed my ear to the door and switched on the device.

Voices came through clear.

"To our new Godfather!"

I knew that voice. It was Luca. I’d backed three of his casinos myself.

"Seriously, Marco," Luca's voice was slick with a dirty laugh, "how did you put up with that ice queen for five whole years? Everyone says the Vettori princess is a useless ornament. Probably a dead fish in bed."

A round of laughter.

My nails dug into my palms.

"Don't talk like that," Marco's voice was lazy, full of a contempt I'd never heard before. "Without that 'princess,' I'd still be shaking down shopkeepers on some shitty corner in Brooklyn. She's boring as hell, but her dowry wasn't just money—it was the entire Vettori machine."

Suddenly, Marco's voice cut through the noise. Sharp.

"Put that out."

His voice was suddenly soft.

"Are you crazy? You can't smoke cigars when you're pregnant. It's bad for the baby."

The air in my headphones went still for a second.

The blood in my veins turned to ice.

Pregnant.

"Oh, sorry. Force of habit." Sofia's voice was sickeningly sweet.

I could picture it.

Her putting down the expensive Cuban cigar, rubbing against Marco's arm like a good little kitten.

"You're so tense, honey," Sofia cooed, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "The doctor said the baby is strong. It's a boy, Marco. A true heir. With Rossi and Gallo blood."

"I just don't want anything to go wrong," Marco's voice was full of a tenderness he hadn't shown me in years. "After tomorrow, I'll give you and our son the best of everything."

The laughter in my headphones continued.

"But for real, Marco," another voice—Matteo, he ran smuggling operations—chimed in. "Thank God for Sofia. If you were counting on that selfish bitch Isabella, the Rossi family line would be dead."

"She's not selfish, she's 'noble'," Marco's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "She thinks this life is too bloody. Doesn't want to bring a child into this 'world of sin.' Ha. Just a little saint spoiled by her old man."

"Exactly," Sofia added, her voice full of cheap superiority. "What kind of a woman denies the man she loves a child? An heir to carry on his name? She's purely selfish."

I leaned against the cold wall. My heart felt like it was being ripped in two.

Selfish?

I closed my eyes. The nightmare flashed in my mind.

I was ten. I saw my cousin—he was only three—kidnapped in a family war. They sent his head back to the estate in a box. With his favorite teddy bear, soaked in blood. That image is burned into my mind.

I swore I would never let my child live with that kind of fear.

When Marco proposed, he swore before God: "Bella, you're my whole world. If this is your fear, then I don't need an heir. As long as I have you, I have everything."

All bullshit.

The man who swore to protect me from my deepest fears was now laughing about my trauma with my best friend. Rubbing salt in the wound.

"So what's the plan?" Matteo asked. "You're the Godfather after tomorrow. You gonna kick her to the curb and make an honest woman out of Sofia?"

I held my breath.

"No," Marco's answer was sharp. Final.

After a beat, he continued. "Her old man is dead, but those Vettori dinosaurs still listen to her. I have the streets, but I still need the Vettori machine in the courts and city hall. That's generations of influence. I can't just toss it aside."

His voice was cold, calculating. The warmth was completely gone.

"As long as we're married, I have a legitimate claim to all of the Vettori family's resources. As for Sofia..."

"I don't care about a title," Sofia cut in, her voice syrupy sweet. "As long as I have your heart, and as long as our son inherits everything. Besides..."

She paused, then let out a soft laugh.

"Sleeping with you right under that bitch's nose... watching her run around for you like an idiot, asking me if I'm okay... It's better than being the wife."

Boom.

The last thread of hope inside me snapped.

So that's what it was.

My five years of devotion was just a free circus act for them.

I was the last fool in the entire New York underworld to know the truth.

Even in the car on the way here, a part of me hoped he just made a stupid mistake.

God, I was an idiot.

I took off the headphones, wrapped the cord neatly, and put them back in my purse.

The sharp, tearing pain didn't last long.

It was replaced by a cold I'd never felt before. The kind of clarity you get when your blood turns to ice.

A Vettori can die. But we are never, ever humiliated.

You want my resources? You want my power? You even want my life?

Fine. You can have it.

But you can't afford the price.

I turned and walked silently to the elevator.

The cold night air hit my face as I walked out of the club, drying the tears that never fell.

I took out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't used in years.

It was for my father's Consigliere, his advisor. A number only to be used if the Vettori family was on the line.

He answered on the first ring. An old, but powerful voice. "Miss Isabella."

"Uncle Enzo," I said, my voice ice cold as I stared out at the city lights. "I'm invoking my father's contingency plan. I want you to strip him of everything. By sunrise, I want Marco Rossi back on the streets with nothing but the clothes on his back."

There was a pause on the other end. Then, a tone I hadn't heard since my father's funeral—the sound of steel. "Understood. Any other orders?"

I got into my car. A cruel smile touched my lips.

"And one more thing. Get the Capos to the estate. It's time for a family meeting."