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."