Lorenzo replied within seconds. [Okay. I'll come fetch you in three days.]

Seeing his message, Bianca felt a small ease settle in her chest at last.

Her body had always been fragile, and after the cleansing procedure, she remained under Dr. Bellandi's care for three more days to regain strength.

It wasn't until the day she was discharged that Vittorio finally came to the clinic.

"Hey. I'm sorry. Viviana's been having a rough few days. Migraines so bad she can barely stand. She gets anxious whenever I'm not around," he explained.

With her back to him, Bianca continued folding the last of her things into a small overnight bag and answered flatly, "Mm."

Sensing her coldness, Vittorio stepped close and wrapped his arms around her from behind.

"What happened with the pills that time. Yes, you went too far. You crossed a line. But I've reflected too. I shouldn't have lost myself… I won't let it happen again," he promised.

"I know you despise Viviana because you love me, but truly, there is nothing between us. She is only a friend. And remember, you're my wife. What is it you fear?" he pressed.

If Vittorio could have seen her face then, he would have noticed the disdain flashing in her eyes.

Friends? You sleep with her. What kind of friendship looks like that? she thought, bitter. Would it only count as "something" if Viviana carried his child?

But Bianca no longer cared. In a few weeks she would be gone for good. There was no use quarreling over things that would soon be ashes.

"What's past is past. I don't wish to speak of it." She folded the last scarf. "Aren't you here to take me home? Let's go."

Vittorio felt a strange hollow. She had not even offered him a smile.

Fine, he thought. When Viviana leaves, I'll surprise Bianca. We will begin anew. I will let the old nights be buried.

Everything of late only proved one thing clearer. Viviana is only a friend. What I feel for Bianca… His gaze lingered on his wife. It is love.

He lifted her bag and guided her from the clinic.

As they reached the corridor, Dr. Bellandi approached with measured steps.

"Bianca, is this your husband? I thought—"

Fearing the doctor might speak of the procedure, Bianca cut him off. "Thank you for your care. I'm recovering well now; I won't take up any more of your time." She drew Vittorio away and hurried from the building.

But no sooner had they returned to the Barresi estate than Viviana's voice rang like a bell through the marble foyer.

"Oh, Bianca, three years and you remain unchanged!" she sang mockingly.

Bianca shot her a warning glare, then turned to climb the stairs to finish packing.

Viviana's next words made her halt.

"Three years ago, I was the one who slipped something into your drink. I told you to find him at the bar. I knew Vittorio loved me, but when I left the country, who could say he wouldn't fall for another? You liked him too, so I set a small trap."

She sauntered forward, one strap of her dress deliberately hanging, the faded marks at her throat and collarbone plain to see.

"You took care of him for three years. I appreciate that sacrifice. But now I've come back. This house is mine, not yours. It's time for you to leave, Bianca."

She smiled, triumphant. Her finger drifted to the pearl at her left ear as if verifying that every word had landed exactly as designed.

"You have no family here in Frostmere Docks. Do not cross me. Take heed: leave while you still can."

Bianca's body trembled with cold fury; the revelation seared through her. So it was her plan from the start, she thought.

Without hesitation, Bianca raised her hand and struck Viviana across the face.

She fixed Viviana with a hard look. "So long as I breathe in this house, you will remain the other woman. Push me, Viviana, and none of us step away unscathed."

Viviana reeled, stunned, lips parted with outrage. Her eyes hardened as she lifted her hand to strike back, when Vittorio appeared in the doorway like a blade.

In an instant Viviana's expression shifted; her voice trembled with contrition.

"Bianca, Vittorio and I are only friends! That night was a mistake! Please! Don't tell anyone!"

In the next beat, she sank to her knees, begging, forehead nearly touching the floor. The pearl earring caught the light as her head bowed, and even now her performance was flawless.

Before Bianca could speak, Vittorio shoved her aside roughly.

Bianca, still tender from her recovery, hit the floor hard and hurt. But it was Viviana he lifted to her feet with practiced gentleness.

When he turned to Bianca again, his eyes cut like knives. "You are being absurd, Bianca! I've told you. Why will you not let this lie?" he demanded.

"If you spread rumors of that night, how will Viviana live with the shame?"

Tears rimmed Bianca's eyes. She bit her lip. "You didn't ask me what truly occurred, Vittorio. Will you believe anything she says?"

His hands balled into fists. Seeing her so fragile stirred something in him, but in the end he sided with Viviana.

"I only trust what stands before me," he declared. "Apologize to Viviana now. Swear you will not lay a hand on her again."

Bianca let out a cold, mirthless laugh, chin high with pride. "I did what any woman would. I am not the one to apologize." Her stance did not waver. "You two are the ones at fault."

Whatever conscience may have lingered in him evaporated.

He smoothed the knot of his tie until it sat too tight, and the room seemed to lose its air. Two soldiers appeared in the doorway before he even raised his voice.

"If you will not beg forgiveness, I will have them carry out the Family's discipline. Ninety-nine lashes. You will not endure them," he said, believing force would bend her will.

He thought threat would break her.

Bianca met his challenge without flinch. Her thumb pressed to the inner edge of her ring, and the trembling stopped.

"I struck her," she said, voice steady. "Because she deserved it. But I have not threatened her." Her eyes flashed. "Vittorio, if you dare lay a hand on me, even just once, you're gonna regret it for the rest of your life."

Seeing how stubborn and unyielding Bianca remained, Vittorio's expression darkened. His eyes, flat and cold, cut through the dim light of the basement room beneath the social club.

"Don't hold back," he commanded, his voice low but deadly. "Carry out the family punishment."

The enforcers, all seasoned soldiers of the Barresi Outfit, lowered their heads. Their hesitation lasted only a breath before the first blow struck the concrete floor and cracked across Bianca's back.

The leather strap, studded with thin brass rivets, bit into her flesh, tearing through her blouse like paper. A single bulb swung overhead, catching the dull gleam of the studs—tools kept in the back room for men who broke omertà, now turned on the Boss's own wife.

"Bianca," one soldier murmured between blows, his voice trembling, "do you admit your mistake?"

Each strike echoed across the basement, heavy with ritual and cruelty. It was the punishment once reserved for traitors to the Family—ninety-nine lashes, each one a message about what happened to those who defied the Don's authority.

By the thirtieth lash, the fabric of her blouse clung to her skin, soaked with her blood. The metallic scent filled the air, mingling with the damp stone and the faint chemical tang of bleach used to clean these floors after other sessions. Her body screamed for her to collapse, but Bianca refused to yield. Her pride—her dignity—was all she had left.

Vittorio stood unmoving, his face a mask of cold discipline, but beneath it, something flickered. He wanted her to break, to scream, to beg—because only then could he convince himself she was still his.

But she didn't.

At the thirty-third lash, her knees buckled. Her vision blurred, the world around her shrinking into black and white blurs of light and pain. The last thing she heard before darkness took her was her own heart pounding—steady, defiant.

That night, her fever soared beyond what any doctor could explain. Her body convulsed under thin sheets, torn between agony and something deeper. They said a fever that high could stop a heart outright.

For three days, she drifted between consciousness and a darkness thick as burial dirt, where whispers of old voices echoed through her dreams.

On the third morning, she awoke to the faint ring of her phone. The screen pulsed with a name—Lorenzo Valente.

"I'm three hours away," his voice said through the line, deep and steady, like an anchor in the storm.

Exhausted but determined, Bianca pushed herself upright. Every breath felt like fire, but she refused to rest any longer. She packed lightly—only her ID and a pendant carved with the Moretti family crest, the one piece of her old life she had never surrendered.

Just as she was about to leave, another message buzzed through.

It was Gia—one of her former contacts from the Moretti front operations, where Bianca had once managed the legitimate side of the business: diplomatic channels, trade logistics, relationships with allied families.

"Bianca!" Gia's voice quivered through the phone. "When are you coming back? Don Barresi let that Viviana take over your duties these past few days—she's already ruined three arrangements! Even the Santoro family broke their alliance with us!"

Bianca closed her eyes, a humorless smile curling her lips. "He didn't blame her, did he?" she murmured, already knowing the answer.

"No! It's like he's lost his mind. He won't even listen to the capos. He snapped at everyone who tried to question her!"

The irony stung. She remembered when she had made a single mistake in her early days managing affairs for him and Vittorio had gone silent for a week. That felt like another lifetime—when her heart still beat for him.

Her voice was steady as she replied, "Gia, I'm no longer part of the Barresi Family. You don't need to report to me again."

The silence that followed was heavy with shock. Then, slowly, Bianca ended the call.

Her decision was final.

But before she could take another step, her phone flared again—this time with a number she recognized instantly. The Commission elders.

The moment she answered, a chorus of angry voices filled the line.

"Bianca, as Vittorio's consigliere, it's your duty to correct him when he's wrong!" one of the old-guard capos barked. "You've gone missing for days! And now that woman, Viviana, has turned the whole operation upside down!"

"Do you even care about the Family's reputation anymore?" another snapped.

Their accusations struck like invisible claws, but Bianca had endured far worse. Once, she might have bowed her head and borne their scorn in silence, for the sake of love, for loyalty to her husband. But that Bianca was gone.

"You're all so dissatisfied with Vittorio, right?" she said coldly. "Then why don't you grow a spine and tell him yourselves? You're a disgrace to your titles. Snarling at me when you're too afraid to say a word to his face."

The line went dead silent. Then, one by one, the connections cut off.

Bianca stood by the window, the city's pale light washing over her. The truth was simple: the reason the Barresi Outfit had survived all these years wasn't Vittorio's leadership. It was her.

She had been the one who smoothed over his temper, repaired the broken alliances and appeased the old guard when his pride drove them away. She had done it all silently, believing that love meant sacrifice.

Now, she finally saw the cost.

She opened the hidden safe behind the study's wall, a place Vittorio never touched. Inside lay years of secrets and memories: her signed separation papers, the annulment petition sealed in a notary's envelope, her medical records from the lost child, and a small tin of ashes. Ninety-nine burned love letters.

At the very bottom was the security drive containing the villa's surveillance footage. She keyed in the passcode and the screen flickered, replaying Viviana's confession from three nights ago, how she had drugged herself and set Bianca up from the start.

Bianca copied the footage onto a second drive. "A keepsake for you, Vittorio," she murmured. "May it haunt you when you remember what you destroyed."

Outside, a town car pulled up the drive. At the same time, her phone lit up again with Vittorio's messages.

[Bianca, Viviana ruined several alliances. I need you back. I know you've always hated her, but I'll explain everything tonight.]

When she didn't respond, the tone shifted.

[Don't be childish. You're my wife and my adviser. Keep this up and I'll cut your accounts in half. You'll apologize before the capos.]

A humorless laugh escaped her lips. "Still trying to command me, even now."

She blocked every number tied to his name and deleted every contact connecting her to the Barresi network. Then she walked through the house one last time, erasing her presence room by room, like she had never existed there at all.

When she stepped outside, the black sedan awaited.

Lorenzo stood beside it, wearing a dark suit cut close at the shoulders, the Valente crest pinned to his lapel. In his hand, he held a bouquet of white tulips, their stems wrapped in silk.

The morning light filtered through the mist as he looked at her, eyes steady and soft.

"Bianca," he said quietly, "I've come to take you home."