Chapter 4

Next came the family's annual high-society charity gala.

Usually, it was just a bullshit pageant for laundering money and trading favors.

Tonight, the grand ballroom of The Metropol felt more like a courtroom, and I was on public trial.

I stood near the champagne tower, watching as familiar faces approached me with expressions I couldn't quite read.

The air in the room had shifted. The pressure had dropped, like right before a storm.

"Seraphina, darling," the wife of an old-school capo glided over, her smile too bright, her eyes avoiding mine. "Are you holding up?"

"I'm perfectly fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

She exchanged a look with her husband, who appeared at her side with the practiced timing of a man used to awkward conversations.

"We just wanted you to know that we... we understand this must be very difficult. What's been happening. With Marcello. We all saw the news on the dark web, and we want you to know you have our absolute support."

The news on the dark web.

It hit me like a punch to the gut.

They all knew about the livestream.

Every single person in this ballroom had privately watched my husband humiliate me in our bed.

I forced my expression to remain placid. Inside, something was cracking.

"Thank you for your concern, but I assure you, everything is fine."

The woman's laugh was strained. "Oh, my dear. You don't have to pretend with us. What that man did to you... in front of all those thugs... it's just monstrous."

I made an excuse and walked away, heading for the restroom, but the toxic pity followed me through the crowd.

Conversations stopped as I passed.

Eyes followed me, a mix of pity and barely concealed curiosity.

In the powder room, I gripped the marble countertop, staring at my reflection.

My makeup was perfect. My posture was flawless. But I could see what they all saw: a hollowed-out woman, publicly destroyed.

When I returned to the ballroom, the whispers had become more brazen.

"Poor thing," I heard an arms dealer's wife murmur to her friend. "She always seemed so fragile. She was never going to be able to hold on to a man like Marcello. I guess we shouldn't be surprised. Did you see the stats on that cartel girl? Four million new followers overnight. Marcello sure knows how to pick them."

The men were worse.

There was a new, predatory hunger in their eyes.

"Seraphina." Thomas, a casino magnate known for preying on his soldiers' wives, slid up next to me, his smile aggressive. "You look absolutely radiant tonight."

I'd known Thomas for years.

He was one of Marcello's card-playing buddies. A handsy, notorious sleazebag.

Tonight, his usual flirtations had a raw, vulgar edge.

"Thank you, Thomas."

"You know, if you ever need someone to talk to... someone who understands the pressures of these high-profile marriages..."

His rough fingers brushed against the small of my back, his cheap cigar scent lingering. "I'm always available."

The implication was crystal clear.

In their minds, Marcello's betrayal had made me unclaimed property. A desperate, easy lay. The public entertainment they'd seen on the dark web.

I made an excuse, slipped out of the ballroom, and fled to my car, my hands shaking as I fumbled for the keys.

On the drive home, the city lights blurred. The rage inside me had burned down to cold, hard ash.

Back in my studio, I calmly unrolled a massive map of the North American Mafia territories.

It was a gift from my father on my eighteenth birthday. It had seen generations of bloody power shifts.

Tonight, it would serve its true purpose.

There was no time for sentiment. I opened a drawer and began pinning things to the map: laundered ledgers, photos of rival crews, surveillance reports on Marcello's key men.

This was never some pathetic domestic drama. This was a mob war.

The coordinates representing Marcello's faction were marked with thick, bloody X's.

Chloe's smuggling routes were re-assigned to my clean-up crews.

After laying out every node of my counter-attack, my phone buzzed.

A text from Marcello: "Deal at the docks tonight. Don't wait up."

I almost laughed.

He thought I was at home, crying into a pillow, shattered by the humiliation at the party.

He had no idea I was right here, using the skills my father taught me to plot the complete annihilation of his family.

Three hours later, I heard his key in the front door.

His footsteps were heavy. Unsteady.

He'd been drinking. Probably celebrating with his friends how successfully he'd shamed me again.

I quickly threw a canvas over the map, then switched my laptop to an image of a religious painting I was "restoring."

When he appeared in the doorway, I looked up, my face a perfect mask of hurt, yet devoted, love. "How did your deal go?" I asked softly.

"Productive," he said, loosening his tie.

I could smell the faint scent of an expensive perfume that wasn't mine. "Did you have a good time at the gala?"

"It was lovely," I lied without blinking. "Everyone was asking about you."

A sharp grin spread across his face. "I'm sure they were."

After he went upstairs, I pulled the canvas off the map and studied it coldly.

Marcello thought he'd succeeded in reducing me to a pathetic public spectacle.

He was about to learn that the deadliest killer is often the one sleeping next to you.