Bianca's POV

I let his words settle in the air between us like smoke from a dying cigarette. Then, without acknowledgment, I reached for another silk blouse and folded it with deliberate precision, smoothing the fabric as though it were the only thing in this room that mattered.

"Adriana needs support," Salvatore continued, his voice carrying that practiced tone of reasonableness he used when he wanted something. "It's better for her child if she's somewhere stable. You know how difficult things have been for her."

A soft, bitter sound escaped my throat before I could stop it.

Salvatore fell silent.

"Bianca." The warmth drained from his voice, replaced by something harder, colder. He was growing impatient. "Are you even listening to me?"

I turned slowly, letting my gaze meet his without flinching.

"I'm listening, Salvatore," I said, my voice flat as marble. "Do whatever you want. It's your house, after all."

His mouth fell open for a fraction of a second before his expression darkened, shadows pooling beneath his cheekbones in the dim lamplight.

"I don't like your tone, Bianca." The words came out low, a warning growl from a man unaccustomed to defiance.

I arched one eyebrow. "What tone?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. I'm trying to be civil here, and you're making this harder than it needs to be." His voice cracked like a whip against the silence of the bedroom.

I lifted another blouse—champagne-colored silk, a gift from my father's house that now felt like a relic from another life—and folded it with care that bordered on reverence. Only when it lay perfectly in the suitcase did I turn to face him again. My expression revealed nothing. A mask carved from years of survival.

"She needs support," he pressed on, his jaw tight. "She's pregnant and alone. I'm only trying to help."

"Why, Salvatore?" The question left my lips quietly, almost gently. "Is she carrying your child?"

Salvatore went rigid.

His jaw worked silently, muscles tensing beneath the tailored fabric of his shirt. His mouth opened, then closed. For a moment, the great Don of the Pini Family had no words.

His eyes flickered toward Adriana, who stood in the doorway like a specter draped in designer mourning clothes, then back to me. "She's my cousin, Bianca." His voice pitched higher, defensive, as though I had accused him of breaking Omertà itself. "Does it have to be my child before I offer her protection?"

I allowed myself a smile—thin, bitter, sharp enough to cut. "No. But it would explain a great deal."

Salvatore's eyes turned to flint. "Why must you be so cold, Bianca?" he snapped, his composure fracturing. "I've told you countless times—there's nothing between us. Adriana is family. She has no one else but me."

I turned away from him, my hands steady as I placed the last of my garments into the leather suitcase. "You don't owe me explanations, Salvatore," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's your house. You're the Don. Do as you please."

Salvatore's breathing grew heavy, filling the space between us with barely contained fury.

"Salvatore..." Adriana stepped forward, her voice dripping with carefully manufactured concern. "Perhaps I should go. I don't want to cause any more tension. It's clear I'm not welcome here." She paused, casting a demure glance at him through lowered lashes. "Besides... she's your wife. Your Donna."

Salvatore's arm shot out, catching her elbow with possessive certainty. "You're not going anywhere," he said, his voice brooking no argument. "This is my house. You're family. I don't give a damn if she wears my ring and carries my name. If anyone doesn't belong under this roof, it's her."

The words struck like a blade between my ribs.

I flinched—just barely, just enough—before I could steel myself against the blow. But I recovered quickly, smoothing my features into the blank canvas I had perfected over three years of this marriage. They would not see me break. They would not have that satisfaction.

Then, as though he hadn't just gutted me with his words, Salvatore turned to me with a frown creasing his brow. "Where's dinner?"

I blinked. "Dinner?"

"Yes," he said slowly, as though speaking to a child. "Grilled lamb, mashed potatoes, rosemary sauce. I told you before I left for the sit-down."

"Oh, Salvatore," Adriana breathed, her hand fluttering to her chest in theatrical delight. "That's my favorite meal. You remembered."

Something twisted in my chest—a knot pulling tighter, cutting off air. My eyes burned with moisture I refused to shed.

Salvatore's face transformed, softening into a smile I hadn't seen directed at me in years. Perhaps ever. "Yes, I did. How could I forget?"

Then his attention snapped back to me, the warmth vanishing like it had never existed. "So? Where is it?"

"Oh." My voice came out hollow. "No. I didn't make it."

His eyes flashed with barely contained rage, his nostrils flaring. "Why not?"

"I was occupied today," I said, my tone deliberately flat. "Perhaps Adriana can prepare something instead. Since she'll be living here now and all."

Adriana's smug expression faltered, her painted lips pressing into a thin line.

Salvatore's face flushed crimson, his eyes blazing with the kind of fury that had made lesser men disappear into the foundations of new construction projects.

"You ungrateful, bitter little—" The words came out like venom. "Is this how pathetic you've become? You can't even manage the one thing you're good for."

I clenched my jaw until my teeth ached. My nails bit crescents into my palms. But I didn't react. I didn't give him the satisfaction.

They weren't worth my pain anymore.

Salvatore shot a glance at Adriana, then turned back to me with a sneer that twisted his handsome features into something ugly. "Forget it. Adriana, we're going out. I won't stay in this house while she's being like this. Let her figure herself out."

Adriana nodded with saccharine sweetness, slipping her manicured hand into his arm. "Perhaps it's best to give her some space, amore."

The door slammed behind them with a finality that echoed through the empty penthouse.

I stood motionless in the silence they left behind, staring at nothing as tears carved slow, silent paths down my cheeks. It was only a matter of time now. I was leaving soon. Then all of this—the humiliation, the betrayal, the slow death of everything I had once hoped for—would end.

I woke deep in the night, my throat parched and my mind restless. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed an accusatory red: 12:43 AM.

I slipped from the bed, my bare feet silent against the cold marble floors as I made my way toward the kitchen. The penthouse was dark, the city lights of the skyline casting long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Then I heard it.

Sounds drifting from the guest suite. The one Salvatore had insisted Adriana would occupy "temporarily."

I froze in the hallway, my hand pressed against the wall for support.

I knew those sounds. The rhythm of them. The meaning behind them.

Every instinct screamed at me to turn back, to return to my room and pretend I had heard nothing. But something deeper—something wounded and desperate—drove me forward. I needed to see it. I needed to watch the last ember of hope I had foolishly harbored turn to ash.

I moved like a ghost through the corridor, my footsteps making no sound on the Persian runner. The door to the guest suite wasn't fully closed. A sliver of golden light spilled into the darkness.

I leaned forward, peering through the narrow opening.

And immediately wished I hadn't.

Salvatore was on top of Adriana, their bodies tangled in silk sheets that probably cost more than most families earned in a month. Her nails raked down his back. His mouth was at her throat.

In his own house. While his wife slept down the hall.

I pulled back from the door, pressing my spine against the wall as the world tilted beneath my feet. My hand found my mouth, stifling the sound that threatened to escape—something between a sob and a scream.

This was the man I had married. The Don I had bound myself to in a church ceremony blessed by the Commission itself.

And this was how little I had ever meant to him.

Bianca's POV

Don Salvatore's mouth traced the column of her throat, and his hands moved across her body with the desperation of a man who had never known restraint.

"God, Adriana..." He groaned against her skin. "I've always loved your body. You feel so good. No one else could ever feel like this. No one else makes me feel this way."

That was enough.

My heart didn't break—it shattered completely, each fragment cutting deeper than any blade the Family had ever wielded. But I didn't scream. I didn't confront them. Instead, I simply closed the door, softly, slowly, as though I were merely a servant who had stumbled upon something she shouldn't have seen.

I turned away.

My heart pounded against my ribs like a caged animal as I stumbled back toward my room. I barely reached the marble bathroom before I dropped to my knees and retched until there was nothing left.

I sat on the cold floor, trembling.

They hadn't just betrayed me. They had done it in this house—under this roof—without shame, without discretion, as though I were nothing more than a piece of furniture to be ignored.

I leaned back against the wall, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

My mind drifted to the last miscarriage I had endured.

It had started early that morning. I woke to searing pain in my lower abdomen, and when I pulled back the silk sheets, they were soaked crimson.

I called for Salvatore, but he never came. He was too busy celebrating Adriana's birthday at the family's private club downtown.

One of the household staff finally drove me to the black clinic—the one the Family kept for matters that couldn't involve hospitals or questions.

Hours later, when he finally appeared, he didn't ask if I was all right. He didn't take my hand. He simply stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his tailored chest, his expression carved from granite.

"Again?" he said coldly.

As if it were my fault. As if I were the defect in his bloodline.

He didn't comfort me. He barely looked at me.

When the doctor pronounced it another unexplained loss, Salvatore merely nodded and walked out of the room without a backward glance.

I had thought he was disappointed in me. I had blamed myself for failing him.

But now I understood the truth.

He wasn't disappointed. He was satisfied.

Because that child—like the ones before—had served its purpose.

He had gotten me pregnant, had me drugged, waited for the miscarriage, and harvested what he needed for Adriana's treatments. And I had apologized to him. I had actually whispered that I was sorry through my tears.

The memory made bile rise in my throat again.

~

I didn't sleep after that.

I spent the remaining hours before dawn arranging everything for my departure—documents, photographs, the few possessions that were truly mine and not bought with Pini money.

Eventually, when hunger became impossible to ignore, I made my way to the kitchen.

The house was silent. The staff wouldn't arrive for another hour.

I made a simple breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, and tea—just for myself. I sat at the long mahogany dining table alone, eating in the heavy silence that filled these rooms like smoke.

My phone buzzed against the polished wood.

A message from my father.

Don Vittorio: I hope you haven't changed your mind again. The arrangements are already in motion.

Me: Never.

Footsteps descended the curved staircase, but I didn't look up.

"Mm, something smells good," Adriana's voice floated through the air, light and poisonous as arsenic in wine.

I gave no reaction. They walked in together, bold as brass, without an ounce of shame between them.

"I hope you slept well, Donna," Adriana continued, the title dripping with barely concealed mockery. "I had a wonderful night, thanks to Salvatore here."

Salvatore cleared his throat, shifting his weight. "Bianca," he muttered, clearly uncomfortable with the transparency of her taunt. "What Adriana means is that she couldn't sleep alone last night. Nightmares. I stayed with her until she could rest."

A small smirk curved Adriana's painted lips, her dark eyes gleaming with triumph.

I continued eating, completely unfazed.

Adriana's gaze swept across the table. There was only one place setting. Her brows lifted in false surprise.

"Oh. No breakfast for us?" she asked, her voice sugary sweet, like honey laced with cyanide. "I suppose we're on our own now."

I kept chewing. I didn't say a word.

Salvatore's attention fixed on me now, irritation bleeding into his aristocratic features. "Bianca. Where's our breakfast?"

I took a slow sip of my tea. "I didn't make it," I said flatly.

There was a pause—heavy, dangerous.

"What do you mean, you didn't make it?" His voice hardened, each word precise as a bullet leaving a chamber.

I shrugged.

Salvatore stepped closer, his presence filling the space between us like a gathering storm. "You are the Donna of this house. Your duty is to support your husband and this Family—and that includes maintaining this household. Or has that become too difficult for you?"

I stood and rinsed my plate quietly, my back to him.

"I asked you a question." His voice rose, cold fury threading through each syllable. "Has it become too difficult?"

I turned around slowly, meeting his gaze without flinching. "You can always eat out. Like last night."

He stepped forward, eyes narrowing to slits. "What the hell is wrong with you lately? You've been acting like a spoiled brat, and it's becoming very tiresome."

I didn't respond.

I reached for the glass teapot filled with hot water, but Salvatore's composure finally snapped.

He snatched the teapot from my hands and slammed it down on the marble counter with enough force to crack the base. The scalding water splashed across my hand and wrist in a burning wave.

I hissed and stumbled backward.

The teapot shattered on impact, and a large shard of glass flew into my forearm, embedding itself in the flesh. Blood welled up instantly, running down my arm in crimson rivulets. I cried out before I could stop myself.

Salvatore blinked. He hadn't meant to do it—not quite like that.

When he saw the blood, his expression softened. For one brief, stupid second.

For one pathetic moment, I thought maybe he would care.

But it didn't last.

Because immediately, Adriana's voice whined from behind him.

"There's no breakfast, and I'm starving, Salvatore. I think I'm feeling faint."

Salvatore gave me a cold, dismissive look—silently blaming me for the entire scene. He glanced at my injured hand with a scowl carved deep into his handsome face.

"You're a Pini wife. You'll survive." He said it like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.

"Remember that the Family Gala is this evening at eight. Get dressed appropriately. I'll send someone to collect you." He adjusted his cufflinks without meeting my eyes.

I pressed a kitchen towel to my arm without a word.

Salvatore didn't apologize. He didn't even have the decency to look guilty as he walked out with Adriana on his arm, her laughter echoing through the marble halls.

~

An hour later, the moving truck arrived.

The men my father had sent were quick and professional—they knew better than to ask questions when a Don's daughter needed something handled quietly.

I stood by the window as they carried out box after box—everything that belonged to me, everything that proved I had ever existed in this gilded prison.

What remained was thrown into the trash.

When they finished, the house looked as though I had never lived here at all. As though Bianca Valente had been nothing more than a ghost passing through these halls.

When Salvatore returned to prepare for the gala, he barely noticed that anything was missing.

I preferred it that way.

Before we left, I glanced around the bedroom one final time—at the silk drapes, the crystal chandelier, the bed where I had lost three children to his greed.

I had already made my decision.

Tonight was the last night I would spend under the Pini name.

After the gala, I would leave. For good.

He wouldn't even realize I was gone until it was far too late.

Bianca's POV

The black sedan cut through the night like a hearse carrying the living dead.

I sat in the back, alone, watching the city lights blur past rain-streaked windows while Don Salvatore Pini occupied the front passenger seat with Adriana DeAngelis pressed against his side. Her laughter—crystalline and deliberate—pierced the silence at intervals, each giggle a calculated blade. They spoke in low murmurs, intimate whispers that excluded me as thoroughly as if I'd been locked in the trunk.

No one observing this arrangement would have guessed I was his wife.

The Family's Social Club loomed ahead, its façade of old-world elegance masking the rot beneath. Gilded sconces flanked the entrance, casting pools of amber light across the marble steps where soldiers in tailored suits stood sentinel. This was the heart of Pini territory—a converted palazzo that served as the stage for every alliance, every betrayal, every carefully orchestrated display of power.

Tonight was the Family Gala. The Feast Night.

And I was nothing more than a ghost trailing behind the procession.

The valet opened Salvatore's door first. Adriana emerged on his arm, draped in a gown of liquid gold that caught the light like molten currency. Her fingers curled possessively around his bicep as they ascended the steps together—a portrait of criminal royalty, perfectly composed for the watching eyes.

She waved to the gathered captains and their wives with the practiced grace of a woman who believed this kingdom was already hers.

Perhaps it was.

I followed three steps behind, my presence an afterthought. The whispers began before I'd crossed the threshold.

"Isn't Bianca supposed to be his wife?"

"Why is the Don walking in with the DeAngelis woman?"

"Honestly, Bianca doesn't carry herself like a Donna. Not compared to Adriana."

My jaw tightened, but I kept my expression carved from marble. In this world, emotion was currency you couldn't afford to spend carelessly.

The main hall stretched before us—a cathedral of excess. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto tables laden with silver and bone china. The old guard occupied their positions of honor near the raised dais, their weathered faces betraying nothing as they observed Salvatore parade Adriana past them like a prize mare.

He introduced her to the Commission elders with evident pride. His hand found the small of her back, guiding her forward with the proprietary touch that should have been reserved for his wife alone.

"Consigliere Benedetto," Salvatore said smoothly, "you remember Adriana. She's been invaluable to the family's... medical interests."

The old man's eyes flickered to me—a brief acknowledgment—before returning to Adriana with carefully neutral assessment.

Then came the moment that sealed everything.

Every Feast Night, tradition demanded the Don lead his Donna in the opening dance. It was more than ceremony—it was a declaration. A statement to the Commission, to the soldiers, to every watching eye that this woman held his protection, his name, his blood oath.

I stood at the edge of the dance floor, waiting.

Salvatore's gaze found mine across the polished marble. For one breath, I thought—

Adriana's fingers slid into his palm.

"Dance with me, Salvatore." Her voice carried just far enough to reach the nearby tables, pitched with theatrical vulnerability. "Forgive me for asking. I simply... I don't want to feel so alone tonight."

Her eyes glistened with manufactured sorrow.

Salvatore hesitated for precisely one heartbeat. Then he nodded without sparing me another glance.

And just like that, he led her to the center of the floor as the string quartet began their slow, ceremonial waltz. Her palm pressed flat against his chest—over his heart, where the old tattoo marked him as a made man. He held her with the careful reverence of a man cradling something precious.

My heart didn't break.

It had shattered so many times before that only dust remained.

What I felt now was shame. Pure, crystalline shame that burned through my veins like acid.

The gathered Family watched. Whispers slithered through the crowd like serpents.

I stood there—an abandoned ornament, a discarded relic—while another woman claimed what the blood oath had promised was mine. The Donna of the Pini Family, left to rot in the shadows while her husband's comare commanded the light.

Adriana tilted her head, resting it against Salvatore's shoulder with the easy intimacy of a lover who knew she'd already won.

Someone near me murmured, "She suits him better. Everyone can see it."

I didn't flinch.

When the music faded, applause rippled through the hall. Salvatore inclined his head toward Adriana with something approaching warmth. She smiled—victorious, radiant, poisonous.

Then, finally, he turned.

He crossed the distance between us with measured steps, his hand extending toward me like an afterthought.

"Bianca." His voice was flat, perfunctory. "Our dance."

I looked at his outstretched hand. The same hand that had held Adriana moments ago as though she were his everything. The same hand that had signed away my children to his black-clinic butchers.

Silence descended over the nearby tables. The old guard watched. The soldiers watched. Everyone waited for me to perform my role.

I smiled—cold as cemetery stone.

"No, thank you."

Surprise fractured his composed mask. His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Excuse me?"

"I said no." My voice emerged steady, controlled. Calm as the eye of a hurricane.

His expression hardened into something brutal. When he spoke again, his tone had dropped to a lethal register. "Bianca. Don't make a scene."

"You started it." The words left my lips wrapped in bitter silk.

Salvatore's composure cracked. He stepped closer, his voice a serpent's hiss meant only for my ears. "Why must you be so jealous? It was one dance. I didn't want her to feel excluded. Must everything revolve around your wounded pride?"

I met his gaze without flinching. "You didn't want her to feel left out. But you have no concern for humiliating your own wife before the entire Commission."

His lip curled. "You should be grateful you have a husband at all, you ungrateful—"

"Please." Adriana materialized at his elbow, her voice dripping with false concern. "Don't quarrel on my account. I never meant to cause trouble."

I turned my stare on her—let her see the cold fury I'd learned to cultivate in the three years of this marriage.

"Stop performing," I said flatly. "It's tiresome."

She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest as though I'd struck her. But I was already turning away, ignoring the scandalized murmurs that followed my retreat.

I pushed through the nearest door and found myself in the powder room—a sanctuary of black marble and gilt mirrors. I needed air. Space. A moment to stop pretending the cracks weren't spreading through my foundation.

I slipped into one of the private stalls and sat on the velvet bench, pressing my palms against my eyes until stars bloomed in the darkness.

Breathe, I commanded myself. Just breathe.

The door opened. Heels clicked against marble. Two voices, carrying with the careless confidence of women who believed themselves alone.

"Did you see how she just stood there? Like some servant girl."

I went rigid.

The second woman sighed with theatrical sympathy. "Poor creature. But honestly, what did she expect? Don Salvatore clearly doesn't want her. Everyone knows."

"I heard she practically begged for the marriage. Threw herself at him like some desperate fool."

Cruel laughter echoed off the marble walls. "It makes sense, doesn't it? Look at Adriana—she's radiant. No man in his right mind would choose Bianca over her. Not for a wife. Not for anything."

I rose from the bench.

The stall door swung open beneath my palm. I emerged into the powder room with the silent grace of a woman who had learned to move through hostile territory without making a sound.

The two women—wives of minor captains, I recognized them now—went pale as corpses.

"Donna Bianca—"

"Good evening, Donna—"

They didn't wait for my response. They fled, averting their eyes like children caught in transgression, their heels clattering against the floor in their haste to escape.

I stood alone before the mirror.

My reflection stared back—hollow-eyed, pale, draped in a black gown that suddenly felt like mourning clothes. The woman in the glass looked like someone who had been slowly poisoned over three years. Someone whose blood had been drained drop by drop until only the shell remained.

Maybe they're right, the reflection seemed to whisper. Maybe you were never meant to survive this world.

I inhaled sharply, forcing steel into my spine. I would return to that hall. I would endure the rest of this hellish evening. I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.

The door creaked open behind me.

I turned, expecting another pair of gossiping wives.

Adriana DeAngelis stood in the doorway, her gold gown catching the light like dragon scales. Her lips curved into a slow, predatory smile.

"Well," she purred, stepping inside and letting the door fall shut behind her. "You look like shit, Donna."