The year I turned twenty-eight, my husband, Vincent Falcone, became the Don of the Falcone family.

And I, Elara Falcone, was finally pregnant with the child we had longed for.

Power, family, love—everything was perfect.

But before I could share the news, everything shattered. He was accused of rape by the daughter of our family's Consigliere.

I rushed to the scene, convinced it was a plot by a rival family.

Instead, I found a smug young girl wearing a custom wedding ring identical to mine, grinding the memorial photo of our dead daughter, Lily, under her heel.

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1

Lily's memorial frame lay shattered on the floor, covered in dirty footprints.

In the casino's penthouse suite, several of the family's Capos exchanged nervous glances when they saw me, not daring to breathe.

Yet they all turned to fawn over this young girl named Isabella.

"Who is she?"

The manager hesitated before whispering, "She's Isabella Rossi. Vincent's... new girl."

New girl? Before the words could even register, a hard shove sent me stumbling.

When I looked up, Vincent had already answered my question with his actions.

He slipped off his suit jacket, draping it over Isabella's shoulders with a look of pure adoration.

"Sweetheart, what are you doing out in the cold?"

"I wanted to be with you, Vincent, but... I know today is the anniversary of Lily's death..."

"Okay, okay, my fault. You can hit me, scream at me—whatever you want. Just don't stand here freezing."

When I got the call, I was so worried something had happened to Vincent that I'd rushed over in just a thin evening gown.

The cold winter wind howled through the broken window, slicing to the bone.

I hesitated for a moment, then called his name.

"Vincent."

He froze, just then realizing he’d shouldered me aside.

But the confusion on his face was fleeting, replaced by that same dismissive grin.

"Elara? What are you doing here?"

"She's a kid, she can be impulsive. But you? Why are you playing along?"

His face darkened. "Think about the family's honor."

He spoke, then gave Isabella a playful swat on the ass.

He chuckled softly, "Go back to the room and wait for me."

"You... you should go home too. I'll be back in the morning."

So casual, as if this betrayal meant nothing.

Seeing that I didn't move, Vincent took a hesitant step toward me.

"Be good. She's just a kid. Don't take it so hard."

I don't know if it was the harsh flickering of the lights or the tears blurring my vision.

In a daze, I remembered the year we were fighting for our lives on the streets, when Vincent held my hand and swore an oath amidst the gunfire.

Loyalty for life. No betrayal. The price of betrayal is death.

My head was buzzing. I turned, snatched the crystal ashtray from the table, and smashed it against his head.

Blood sprayed as Isabella screamed.

The world went silent.

She leaped into Vincent's arms like a frightened rabbit, her lips trembling as she soundlessly mouthed the word "scared."

Blood was still streaming from Vincent's forehead, but both of his arms were wrapped tightly around Isabella, shielding her.

"You're insane! You're completely insane!"

"Isabella isn't like you. She's innocent. She's never seen anything like this."

"Stop making such an ugly scene!"

But I laughed, raising the bloody shard of the ashtray in my hand and aiming it at him again.

"What's so ugly about this?"

"When I saved you, I took eighteen blades from the Mancinis for you. Eighteen. I thought I was dead."

"You cried and said if I survived, you'd buy me red roses for the rest of my life. You carried me for blocks, leaving a trail of our blood in the street. That was ugly."

Vincent glanced at the trembling girl in his arms, then covered her ears and scowled at me.

"Don't say these things in front of her."

"I told you, she's not like you. If she gets scared, she won't be able to sleep."

Of course, she's not like me.

At her age, Vincent and I were dodging bullets in gang wars, ready to die for each other and for the family.

He was afraid I'd say too much. Afraid I'd tell her who we really were.

Vincent sighed lightly and gestured for his men to escort her away.

Isabella clutched pitifully at the corner of Vincent's jacket, refusing to let go.

Vincent murmured something to soothe her, and they shared a quiet, intimate moment for the whole room to see. Only then did Isabella finally leave, her walk a triumphant swagger.

It wasn't until we were the only two left in the suite that Vincent lit a cigar and slowly sat down across from me.

The smoke swirled around him, obscuring his face.

I could only hear his steady, emotionless voice.

"You have status, wealth... more than anyone could dream of. Why are you making this so hard over some girl?"

"You know you're the only one I love. But I'm a man. Men... we need a change of scenery sometimes."

Vincent casually flicked the ash from his cigar.

His gaze fell on the scars I'd gotten saving his life, then quickly darted away.

"I've never said a word about those hideous scars on your body, have I?"

"Even though every time you get naked, trying to be seductive, I look at those wounds and feel utterly..."

He paused, glanced at me, and then spat out the word with perfect precision.

"Disgusted."

After saying that, Vincent slowly stood up.

He slid the heavy signet ring, the symbol of my position as Donna, back onto my middle finger.

"But don't worry. I do love you."

"No matter who I'm with, nothing will ever threaten your position as Donna."

"People like us, we've fought our whole lives for some stability. Wanting to enjoy life a little isn't a sin, is it?"

For years, Vincent always told me.

"Just wait a little longer. Wait until I'm the Boss of the Five Families."

Then he would step down and live a quiet life with me.

For that promise, I'd taken bullets and knives.

My body is a roadmap of scars, but I never thought of leaving.

But the good life I imagined was a happy family of three.

But what Vincent wanted wasn't a family. It was a harem.

I took a deep breath, the man before me both intimately familiar and a complete stranger.

The boy who said he would bathe New York in blood for me after I was bullied.

The Vincent who pulled me from a dumpster and promised me a home.

The man who knelt by my hospital bed after I nearly died and swore he'd buy me a red rose every day for the rest of our lives.

He was a stranger to me now.

My fingertips grazed the grip of the gun hidden in my dress.

I touched my stomach, remembering the promise I made to Lily, and took a deep breath before speaking to Vincent.

"Let's get a divorce."

Vincent didn't agree to the divorce.

Not because he couldn't bear to let me go, but because Isabella suddenly called, crying that she was afraid of the dark.

He muttered a few cursory words to me and rushed to her side.

And sure enough, the impatient little bitch sent me a video.

Vincent was in our Hamptons villa—the one I had designed for our family—cooking for her. He stood at the pristine kitchen island, cheerfully chopping tomatoes, but the person beside him was not me.

A decade of our shared blood and violence, traded for a piece of fresh meat.

Overwhelming grief and pain engulfed me, fermenting into a cold, hard rage.

Fighting back the pain, I gathered the pieces of Lily's broken frame and made a call to a loyal Soldato under my command.

The next day, an exquisite jewelry box was delivered to Vincent's desk.

Inside was the finger on which Isabella wore the custom wedding ring identical to mine.

The blood hadn't yet congealed, its garish crimson outshining the diamond's fire.

Vincent's eyes went bloodshot with fury.

He had my Soldato dragged before me, bound and beaten, and said coldly,

"Elara, you went too far this time."

"Isabella is innocent."

Innocent? The word, so light, pierced my heart like a dagger.

I shook my head, a cold smile on my lips.

Our child, our Lily, was buried in the cold earth.

And he was holding Isabella, mocking the panic born from my love for him.

Silently clenching my fists, I spoke, my voice raw.

"Sign the divorce papers, and I'll spare your little lover. Otherwise, no matter where you hide her, I will find her."

"I will cut off her fingers, her ears, her nose, one by one."

"Let's see if you run out of patience before she runs out of parts."

Vincent laughed, arrogant and certain.

"You won't."

"Elara, I know you," he said. "You love me too much. You'd never leave me over some girl."

Before he could finish, a scream echoed from his phone.

Vincent raised his hand and finished my Soldato with a single shot.