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."

The bells of St. Patrick's Cathedral rang out.

It was the anniversary of old man Rossi's death. It was also the day Marco was meant to be made Don.

I pushed open the heavy oak doors just as the organ music stopped.

Hundreds of eyes shot to me. Then they darted away, turning into hushed, knowing whispers.

I didn't have to guess what they were looking at.

In the front row, in the seat of honor, my so-called mother-in-law, Maria, was holding Sofia's arm tightly.

And Sofia was wearing a white designer suit—the color meant for the wife.

The real gut punch? The ruby brooch pinned to her lapel. It was his grandmother's. The symbol of the Rossi matriarch.

I stood at the end of the long aisle. I wasn't angry. It was almost funny.

This was never a secret.

This was a party. A "Let's all laugh at Isabella" party, and the whole family was in on it.

My heels clicked on the stone floor as I walked toward them.

"Isabella, you're late," Maria said, her voice cold. She instinctively moved to shield Sofia. "This is an important day. Don't bring your sour face in front of our guests."

Sofia stood behind her, a hand resting protectively on her stomach, her eyes challenging me. "Bella, don't be mad at Maria. I wasn't feeling well, so she let me stand here to get some air."

"Get some air?"

I stopped right in front of them. My eyes fell to the brooch on Sofia’s chest.

"Wearing my brooch, standing in my place, and carrying my husband's bastard. Yeah, Sofia. I'm surprised you can breathe at all."

The air was sucked out of the room. A few of the old-timers nearby gasped.

"What are you talking about!" Maria shrieked like a cornered rat. "What bastard! That's the Rossi family's first grandson! A precious heir!"

"Ma!"

Marco rushed down from the altar, his face a mask of fury.

He grabbed his hysterical mother, his eyes darting nervously at the guests.

"Isabella, whatever this is, we'll talk at home! This is my father's memorial. Do you have to disturb the dead?"

"You're the one disturbing him, Marco."

I pulled my arm away from his grasp and pointed at Sofia's small bump. My voice wasn't loud, but it was clear enough for everyone in the front rows to hear.

"Parading your mistress and your bastard in front of your own father's coffin. Is that what you call respect?"

"Enough!"

Maria threw off Marco’s hand, all pretense gone. She glared at me, spitting her words.

"Since it's out in the open, I'm done pretending! Isabella, you should have been gone long ago! Sofia is carrying a boy, the hope of the Rossi family! What do you have besides your dirty money?"

Marco didn't stop her.

He just stood there, adjusting his tie. The panic was gone, replaced by a kind of ugly, cornered-animal resolve.

He figured the secret was out, this was his turf, and he didn't have to play nice anymore.

"Mom's right."

Marco looked up at me, his eyes cold as a stranger's.

"Isabella, I was going to give you some dignity. But if you want to air our dirty laundry in a church, fine. Let's put our cards on the table."

He walked over to Sofia and wrapped his arm around her waist in front of everyone.

Sofia leaned into him, a triumphant smirk on her face.

"The Brooklyn docks, the Queens casinos—all the territory I built with my own two hands—are now Rossi territory. You can keep your art galleries and your charity balls."

He looked at me like he was doing me a favor.

"Sign the papers, and I'll forget about this little scene you made. We go our separate ways."

"Go our separate ways?"

I repeated his words, then I started to laugh.

The sound echoed in the huge, silent church. It was sharp. Ugly.

"Marco, do you really think you 'built' any of that turf?"

I looked at his smug face and felt nothing but disbelief.

Without a Vettori pass, his shipments wouldn't make it past the docks.

Without the network my father left me, his casinos would have been shut down on day one.

And he really thought he did it all himself.

"What's so funny?" Marco snapped, his face red with anger.

"I'm the fucking king here!" Marco roared. "This is Rossi territory!"

"King?"

My smile vanished. My eyes went dead cold.

I pulled my phone from my purse. In front of the guests, in front of Marco and his pathetic mother, in front of the little tramp with the triumphant smirk... I dialed a number.

The church was dead silent. My calm voice, however, echoed to the vaulted ceiling.

I stared right into Marco's face as it turned to stone, letting him and everyone else hear every single word.

"Enzo," my voice was pure ice, ringing through the silent church. "The order stands. Liquidate everything tied to the Rossi and Gallo names. Burn it all to the ground."