Chapter 1

"Your card's been declined, Mrs. Messina. Do you have another way to pay?"

The server's cold words sealed that card's fate.

That Amex Black Card was the birthday gift Christian had pressed into my palm this morning before he left.

He'd stroked my face so gently, told me it was my special day and the entire extravagant bill was on him. For a second there, I actually felt something—like maybe I'd actually found a husband who knew the meaning of respect and thoughtfulness.

And now? He's vanished into thin air. I've called him dozens of times in a row. All I get is endless, dead ringing.

This underground club runs on iron rules. It sits right at the crossroads of every major mafia family in the city. If that card doesn't go through, I'm walking straight into a world of trouble.

The manager's fake, deferential smile evaporated in an instant. What took its place was pure, undisguised impatience.

"Mrs. Messina, do you have another form of payment?"

His arms crossed over his chest, looking down at me like I was a nuisance.

"We're closing up soon. And we don't run tabs here. I'm sure you understand how things work in our world, don't you?"

The few guests still lingering around the club started turning their heads my way, whispering behind their hands, snickering at my humiliation.

As I looked at the crowd closing in around me, something clicked into place like a bolt of lightning.

This is my birthday. And Christian never once cleared the room. He booked the whole floor on purpose. Ordered the most expensive bottles. Invited every pair of eyes in the city to watch.

Maybe—no, I don't want to believe it. I don't want to believe he set this whole trap just to get even for his little assistant Giselle.

I was still forcing myself not to jump to conclusions when the club's heavy brass doors swung open. The guards stepped aside, and in walked Christian with Giselle draped all over him, her face dripping with smug satisfaction. Behind them trailed a whole parade of gang capos and new-money upstarts, all wearing the same cruel, entertained smirk—like they were settling in for a particularly good show.

"Iliana, you used to love punishing people with your money and your privileges, didn't you?"

Giselle leaned against Christian's chest, her arms wrapping around his neck. She looked right at me, eyes gleaming.

"So why don't you get a real taste of what happens when you can't pay your tab on mafia turf?"

The room erupted. Laughter, hoots, catcalls.

"I heard Iliana crawled up from some slum—just got lucky Christian took a liking to her. Did she actually think he'd keep her on a pedestal?"

"Pure fantasy. This is the underworld, honey. Pretty face doesn't buy you a seat at the table. And she actually thought she was a wife, not a plaything."

"Of course—the Don's woman needs to understand her husband's heart doesn't stay in one place. She's been riding on Christian's name and connections this whole time, and she actually bought into the whole Beverly Hills trophy act."

"Beauty expires fast. The moment he finds something younger and fresher? Her good days are done."

I stared at them coldly, my nails digging so hard into my palms it stung. The rage was building, hot and thick, pressing against my ribs.

Just as I figured. Christian cooked up this whole spectacle just to humiliate me for his little assistant.

Christian led Giselle by the hand straight to the head table. He pulled out the Raphael high-back chair with an elegant flourish and settled in.

"Easy, Giselle." His voice was low, gentle. "Whatever embarrassment she put you through, I'll make sure she gets back double tonight."

Giselle's eyes lit up. She leaned in and planted a hard kiss right on his lips.

"Thank you, Christian."

Then she turned to me.

"Iliana, you're nothing but a leech living off a man's wallet. What gave you the right to freeze my card? To cut me off?"

Before I could answer, she grabbed a bottle of top-shelf vintage worth tens of thousands and hurled it at my feet.

CRASH!

Glass exploded everywhere. Expensive wine splashed across the hem of my couture gown, soaking my ankles—cold and sharp, the scent of rich burgundy filling the air.

She threw her head back and laughed.

"HAHAHA! Iliana, I've got Christian footing my bill tonight. I could smash every bottle in this place and walk out smiling. But you? You probably can't even afford to dry-clean that rented dress!"

Christian lounged back in his chair like a king on a throne, watching me with that cold, mocking detachment.

"Don't look at me like you want to kill me, Iliana. This is the underworld. If you have your own money, then by all means—pay up and walk out with your dignity."

"Hahaha! Dignity? She couldn't afford a cup of coffee in this place!"

"The tab for this floor alone—plus all those opened bottles—we're talking enough to buy half her life!"

"Without Messina backing her, she couldn't even step foot in this place."