At the Valente compound's formal sit-down, Don Lorenzo Valente finally answered her call, but only after confirming through his own people that the voice on the line truly belonged to Bianca Moretti.

"Bianca," his voice came through the receiver, smooth but glacial. "Three years ago, you did everything you could to protect Vittorio Barresi. You cut my calls. You severed all contact. You even had word sent that I should stay out of Frostmere Docks. And now, suddenly, you've changed your mind?"

He gave a low, humorless laugh. "What happened? Your husband didn't give you what you wanted?"

The room fell utterly silent. None of the capos seated around the long table dared to breathe too loudly.

In the old boroughs and the waterfront territories, two bloodlines ruled above all others: the Valentes and the Morettis.

And every made man in the city knew the story of Lorenzo and Bianca. They had grown up together, both from founding families whose fathers sat on the same Commission. Everyone thought they would one day be united in a sanctioned marriage, the kind of alliance that gets blessed at the cathedral and sealed with a toast from the old guard.

When Bianca left her family's household to study abroad near Frostmere, Lorenzo had followed, expanding his legitimate front businesses through the northern districts.

But three years ago, he'd come home without warning. Rumor said he came back with a returned ring and a broken heart.

Now, hearing the edge in his tone, Bianca replied evenly, "Yeah. I couldn't tell the difference between a husband and a warden."

That earned a scoff from the other end, the sound sharp and dismissive.

Taking the hint, Bianca didn't argue. "Forget it," she said coolly. "Pretend I never called."

She was just about to hang up when his voice came through again, low, commanding, carrying the weight of a Don's authority.

"Don't you dare, Bianca."

There was a pause, heavy with tension, before he continued, "Reconnect our lines. All of them. And send me the address of wherever you're staying."

"One month," he added firmly. "I'll come to Frostmere myself to bring you back. This time, you don't get to change your mind."

The sheer confidence in his voice made Bianca laugh quietly, almost in disbelief. "Alright," she said.

Later, in Vittorio's private study, Bianca placed two sets of papers into the wall safe: her signed departure from the Barresi front operations and the annulment decree, both bearing Vittorio's signature.

Then she drew out a glass jar filled with soft, gray ash, the remains of ninety-nine letters she'd written to him over the years.

She uncorked the jar, letting the faint scent of burnt paper fill the air, and took out the old photographs, pictures that once held memories of them together.

One by one, she dropped them into the fireplace.

The flames flickered high, golden at first, then dimmed to a low, guttering blue.

With each fragment consumed, another piece of hope turned to dust.

When the jar was finally full, so was her disappointment.

Moments later, Vittorio returned to the room. The sharp scent of smoke pricked his senses, making him pause in the doorway.

"What are you burning?" he demanded.

Bianca shifted slightly, blocking his view of the fireplace. "Just some old papers," she replied, her voice calm but cold.

Vittorio's brows drew together. Through the smoke, he glimpsed something charred, maybe the edge of a photograph, or perhaps a letter.

But before he could get closer, a woman's soft, teary voice called from the hallway.

Just like that, Vittorio turned on his heel and rushed out while Bianca quickly finished tidying up and followed him out.

At the threshold, she saw him holding Viviana's hand, his mouth brushing against her fingertip as he drew away a single drop of blood. His eyes were filled with tenderness Bianca had never seen turned her way.

"I'm so sorry, Bianca," Viviana said sweetly, her voice laced with false innocence. "I didn't mean to bother you this late."

"But the portrait on the wall," she added quickly, feigning a wince, "it's hung too low. I scratched my finger on the frame. It's really dangerous."

Bianca's chest stirred, not from jealousy but from scorn.

That portrait had been hanging there for three years without harming a soul. And now, the first day she walked in, it just happened to "cut" her.

No, the problem wasn't the picture. It was the bride frozen inside it.

But before Bianca could respond, Vittorio cut in sharply, his tone carrying the weight of command.

"She's right. That portrait's in the way. Bianca, have someone take it down and move it to the storage room."

Out of Vittorio's line of sight, Viviana cast Bianca a triumphant little smirk, a silent declaration of war.

Bianca might no longer love Vittorio, but she wasn't about to make things easy for the woman who'd stolen her place under his roof.

"The storage room's already full," she said flatly. "There's no space left."

Her quiet defiance made Vittorio's jaw tighten.

Viviana, ever the actress, drew in a small, pitiful gasp, clutching her barely scratched finger as if she'd been slashed with a blade. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

"Ouch… Vittorio… it really hurts."

That was all it took for Vittorio to snap at her.

"Then burn those damn portraits!"

Although Bianca was taken aback, she wasn't surprised.

Vittorio had always had feelings for Viviana. It wasn't exactly unexpected that he would go this far for her.

Once upon a time, Bianca might have taken it personally. But now, she simply replied with quiet composure, "Alright."

After all, she was leaving soon. Whether their wedding portraits were burned tonight or next week made no difference.

For a second, Vittorio froze, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He'd only said those words out of frustration, annoyed she hadn't given him a way to save face.

Wasn't she the one who used to treasure those things the most? Why's she suddenly agreeing so easily?

Without another word, Bianca called one of the household staff to take down the framed pictures from the wall. They carried them to the back courtyard and burned them until nothing remained.

Viviana, newly returned from a long stay with associates in Naples, had no place of her own yet.

So, Vittorio offered her a room in the main residence of the Barresi estate for a while.

Bianca didn't object. Her tone was even, almost indifferent. "Sure," she said.

She even instructed the house manager to prepare the guest suite next to his bedroom for Viviana, then quietly moved her own belongings into a smaller room on the ground floor of the west wing, closer to the service quarters.

As she was packing, Vittorio's voice came from behind her.

"Come on, Bianca, don't be petty. I know you're jealous, but Viviana's only staying here for a while."

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You hate sleeping alone. Moving down here, will you even rest properly?"

He hesitated, then softened his tone. "About those portraits. I went too far. If they meant something to you, we can take new ones. When there's time."

He stepped closer, reaching to hug her from behind, only for her to slip out of reach.

Turning to face him, she met his gaze. Calm. Clear.

To be fair, Vittorio had never been cruel. In the three years they'd been bound by oath and sacrament, he'd done enough to make her believe that perhaps the match had been meant to hold.

But every time Viviana reappeared, he never hesitated. He always chose her.

Bianca loved him. She really did. But what she wanted wasn't love handed out with conditions or affection that came second to someone else.

"I'm not jealous," she said quietly. "You've been dealing with Family business late into the night. Sleeping alone helps me rest better."

Her words, spoken so evenly, unsettled him more than anger would have.

Vittorio's expression hardened. He smoothed the knot of his tie until it sat too tight against his collar. He wasn't used to defiance, especially not from her. He had already lowered his pride. This was supposed to be the moment she softened, as she always had.

"Whatever," he said curtly. "By the way, what was that document you had me sign earlier today?"

Bianca's lips curved faintly. "A little gift for our third anniversary. You'll know soon enough."

That eased his temper a fraction.

He knew Bianca didn't like Viviana's presence, but Viviana had only just returned to Frostmere and he was simply helping her settle in.

Once her new apartment in the city was ready, she'd leave. He told himself that. Soon, everything would return to normal. He'd still live properly with Bianca, as duty demanded.

"Alright. It's late. You should get some rest."

When Bianca brushed past him, he instinctively lifted his arms for the usual goodnight embrace, but she walked straight by, silent as snowfall.

He stood there, the faint scent of her perfume fading down the corridor, something restless turning behind his ribs.

Something about her was different tonight. He just couldn't name it.

The night deepened. Rain started against the windows of the Barresi estate, faint and cold.

Bianca, already asleep, was yanked from her bed and dragged upstairs by two of Vittorio's soldiers.

Her shoulder slammed into the wall of Vittorio's bedroom. Pain bloomed through her ribs, the breath knocked from her lungs.

Dazed, she blinked through the haze, and then heard his voice, cold and sharp as a blade laid flat.

"I understand your jealousy, Bianca," Vittorio said, his dark eyes burning, "but drugging Viviana? That's a line even you shouldn't cross."

Her pulse spiked. "What?"

She looked up, vision swimming.

On the bed, Viviana lay trembling in Vittorio's arms. Her skin flushed crimson, her breath ragged, sweat slicking her brow. Her whole body shook as though something toxic was working through her blood.

"I didn't do it!" Bianca's voice cracked.

Viviana whimpered, clutching at Vittorio's chest. "I only drank the tea you gave me… I didn't have anything else…"

Bianca's eyes narrowed. "You asked for that drink! I had some too. Why am I fine, then?"

"And what would I gain from drugging you?" Her tone turned scathing. "Viviana, if you're going to frame me, at least try harder."

She was telling the truth. But truth had no power in the face of well-crafted tears.

Viviana began to sob harder, her voice weak and trembling. "Forget it. If she says I faked it, then maybe I did. I… I have nothing else to say."

Bianca's hands curled into fists. Fury boiled beneath her skin, trapped and caged. It felt like punching water. No resistance, no justice.

That was the last straw for Vittorio. His voice dropped to a deadly growl.

"That's enough, Bianca! This isn't the first time you've done something like this. You know what happened three years ago."

His words dropped like a hammer.

"You really think someone with your record deserves trust?"

Just like that, one sentence condemned her.

Bianca stared at him, teeth gritted. "I'll say it again," she said in clenched teeth, each word crystal clear. "I did not drug you three years ago."

That night haunted her still. She'd gone after him when she heard he was drinking alone at a private club near the docks. Worried, she'd followed him, only to find him already drugged, barely conscious in a back room.

Yes, she loved him. Yes, one reckless night had changed everything. But she never planned it.

He had never believed her. And from that moment on, it became the wound neither of them could heal.

"Vittorio, I can't… I can't help it…" Viviana moaned, her fingers tightening around him. Her body trembled violently, sweat darkening the silk of the pillowcase beneath her.

Vittorio frowned, pushing her back slightly, but Viviana snatched a letter opener from the bedside drawer and dragged it across her arm.

Blood welled instantly, crimson bright under the lamplight.

"I know I'm a burden," she sobbed. "I should just disappear… so you don't have to worry about me anymore…"

The scent of blood hit the air like a gunshot, sharp and impossible to ignore.

Vittorio clenched his jaw, seized the blade from her hand and growled lowly, "I'll help you."

Bianca's breath caught. Her eyes widened as she stared at Vittorio, disbelief freezing her in place. She couldn't comprehend that he'd said those words—so easily, so cruelly.

And yet, there was no hint of guilt in his eyes. The man she once shared a life with now looked at her like a judge delivering a sentence.

"You've really disappointed me, Bianca." His tone was calm, almost cold. Then his gaze shifted toward Viviana, who was curled against him like a wounded bird. "You drugged her. Whatever happens after this, it's your fault."

As his arm tightened around her, Viviana's fingers trailed idly over his chest. Her eyes flicked up to meet Bianca's, taunting, amused.

Bianca's knees trembled. She clutched the edge of the table, forcing herself to stay upright. When she finally spoke, her voice came out laced with mockery.

"You actually think I drugged her just so you"—her finger shook as she pointed at him—"could be the antidote?"

Her voice grew steady, sharp. "There are plenty of ways to neutralize drugs, Vittorio. This," she gestured at the scene before her, "was never one of them."

"Vittorio…" Viviana's soft voice broke in, trembling just enough to sound sincere. Her nails grazed the bandaged cut on her arm, opening it slightly so a drop of red rolled down. "Don't worry about me. Let me handle this myself."

She tilted her head, her next words angled sweetly toward Bianca. "And please don't blame her. I know she didn't mean to hurt me. She just… loves you too much."

Something in Bianca snapped. She'd already decided to leave Vittorio, but that didn't mean she would let Viviana disgrace her in her own home.

"My God, Viviana, do you even have any shame left? You're clinging to my husband in my house, pretending to be some innocent victim. Did your lover forget to teach you manners?"

The sound that followed was sharp and immediate. Slap!

Bianca's head snapped to the side. Her cheek stung.

"Enough, Bianca!" Vittorio roared. "Viviana hasn't spoken a single bad word about you and yet you keep spitting venom! You disgust me!"

He grabbed her wrist. She stumbled, gasping as he dragged her toward the door.

"You like drugging people, huh? Then stand here and listen to what that leads to!"

He tore the tie from his neck, bound her wrists to the doorknob and tightened the knot until metal bit into her skin.

His eyes were ice when he said, "You brought this on yourself. Don't blame me, or her."

The door slammed shut.

At first came silence. Then a sound, a soft groan. A breath. Then another. The rhythm built, unmistakable, unrelenting.

Bianca shut her eyes. Tears slipped silently at first, but eventually, even those dried up. All that was left was a hollow ache spreading through her chest.

Every moan from inside the room hammered another nail into the coffin of her love.

This is what happens when you love the wrong man, she thought bitterly.

Then pain struck deep in her abdomen. A sharp, twisting ache that sent her to her knees. The cords cut into her wrists, her body hanging from the door handle, drenched in cold sweat.

Her lips moved, but her voice came out barely a whisper. Compared to the pleasure-filled sounds beyond the door, her faint gasps were nothing, completely drowned out.

The night dragged on, each second longer than the last.

When the door finally opened, dawn light spilled in through the tall windows of the Barresi estate.

Vittorio stood there, adjusting his sleeve, his voice calm as ever. "Have you learned your lesson?"

No answer.

He frowned and looked down. Bianca lay motionless at his feet.

"Bianca?" He crouched, pressed a hand to her cheek, hot as fire. Panic flickered in his eyes.

He lifted her into his arms, about to rush out.

"Vittorio." Viviana's voice drifted lazily from the bed. "You were a bit rough last night. I think something's swollen. And… I can't exactly ask anyone else to help with that, can I?"

No response.

She continued, "Bianca used to get fevers all the time back in college. Just take her to the hospital. Let the maid handle it."

Then, with a sigh, "And you know my reputation. If gossip spreads, people will talk. I can't afford that."

Bianca's lashes trembled. Her vision was blurry, her body numb, but she saw it.

She saw Vittorio hesitate.

She saw him turn.

And then she felt herself being handed off to someone else's arms.

Darkness followed.

When she opened her eyes again, everything was white. White sheets. White walls. The steady beeping of a heart monitor.

"Mrs. Barresi," the doctor said gently, "you're about three months pregnant. But the baby isn't stable. You should—"

"Dr.," Bianca interrupted, her voice hoarse but firm. "I don't want the baby. Schedule the procedure."

The doctor blinked, taken aback. "There's no medical necessity to terminate—"

Her next words cut him short.

"My husband cheated. We're done. That's reason enough. Please schedule it. Today."

The doctor exhaled slowly. Whatever he wanted to say, he swallowed back. "Understood. I'll make the arrangements immediately."

Once he left, Bianca reached for her phone and typed a message.

[A month's too long. Three days. Come get me in three days.]

She hit send.