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."

Bianca's POV

I didn't answer her.

I didn't even blink.

My fists clenched slightly at my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough to leave crescents in the flesh—but I refused to give her the satisfaction she craved. Instead, I held her gaze with the stillness of a woman who had learned to bury her emotions beneath six feet of marble silence. My face betrayed nothing.

She tilted her head, dark curls spilling over one shoulder, clearly disappointed that her venom had failed to draw blood.

"Really? No reply?" she teased, her heels clicking against the imported Carrara tile as she came to stand beside me at the gilded vanity.

I stayed quiet, washing my hands beneath the antique brass faucet, watching the water swirl down the drain like I wished I could follow it.

"Oh, come on, Bianca." Adriana leaned against the marble countertop with practiced elegance, her reflection a serpent in the mirror. "Don't act like you didn't see us that night. You were standing right there in the doorway, watching everything."

Still, I said nothing. The silence stretched between us like piano wire.

She continued with a cruel laugh that echoed off the bathroom walls of the Pini estate. "You should have heard him last night. He was pazzo for my body—couldn't keep his hands off me. I really hope you learned a thing or two from what you saw."

I dried my hands on the monogrammed towel with deliberate calm, then turned to walk away without sparing her another glance.

She was getting irritated at my lack of reaction—I could feel the frustration radiating off her like heat from a furnace. So she pushed harder.

"Oh, I know what'll crack you," she said, her voice dropping to something malicious and intimate. "Let's talk about your babies."

I froze instantly.

My blood turned to ice water in my veins.

"Those poor little things," she whispered from behind me, each word a stiletto sliding between my ribs. "But they didn't die for nothing, you know. Thanks to them—thanks to what the clinic extracted—my womb is finally strong enough to carry his heir."

I turned slowly.

She leaned closer, triumph burning in those coal-dark eyes like hellfire. "You couldn't carry his child. Your body failed him, over and over. But I will succeed where you couldn't. And Salvatore will finally have what he always wanted—with me."

Something inside me snapped at her words.

Three years of silence. Three forced terminations. Three children I never got to hold, stolen from my body for her benefit while I was told it was medicine, told it was for my health. The rage that had been building behind my sternum like a caged animal finally broke free.

I shoved her hard, and she stumbled backward, gasping as she caught herself against the damask-papered wall.

She looked at me in shock for a moment, her carefully constructed mask slipping.

And then, slowly, she smiled.

"You'll regret that," she murmured.

Before I could ask what she meant, she turned toward the wall—

And slammed her own head into it.

I blinked in horror and disbelief.

Then she did it again. And again.

Blood bloomed against the cream-colored wallpaper like roses in winter.

She released a loud, piercing scream that could have shattered crystal, then dropped to the floor in a heap of silk and calculated tears, sobbing and clutching her head as though I had done it.

The bathroom door burst open almost instantly—too quickly, as if they had been waiting just outside.

Several Family members rushed in, soldiers and wives alike, their faces a chorus of manufactured concern.

"Someone call the doctor!"

"Madonna mia—Adriana!"

"Donna Bianca—what happened here?"

I stood there frozen, my hands trembling at my sides, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Don Salvatore Pini swept through the doorway with two enforcers flanking him, his presence filling the room like a gathering storm. He wore his authority like a second skin—the tailored charcoal suit, the heavy signet ring, the cold calculation in those pale eyes.

He saw the blood first, dark against the wallpaper.

Then he saw her, crumpled artfully on the floor.

Then me.

"Bianca?" His voice was sharp with fury, each syllable a bullet.

Adriana whimpered weakly, curling in on herself with the skill of a woman who had rehearsed this moment.

"She—she attacked me," she sobbed, her voice breaking with perfect precision. "I came to apologize to her for the dance earlier, to make peace between us, and she just snapped. She pushed me and slammed my head against the wall. I—I think I'm bleeding badly, Salvatore."

Salvatore stared at me, his face twisted with rage that I recognized all too well. It was the same expression he wore before every punishment, every lesson he decided I needed to learn.

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. My throat had closed around the truth like a fist.

"She's lying," I croaked when I finally found my voice. "She's lying. I didn't touch her—not like that. She's doing this to frame me."

Salvatore's eyes blazed with cold fire. "So now you're calling her a liar? Calling a guest in my house, a woman under my protection, a liar?"

"She slammed her own head against the wall," I said, firmer this time, though my voice shook. "I didn't—"

"Basta!" he roared, and the single word silenced the room like a gunshot.

My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears.

The Family members gasped and murmured among themselves. I could feel their eyes on me—judging, condemning, already writing the story they wanted to believe.

"She's unstable," someone whispered. "Always knew there was something wrong with her."

"The Valente girl was never right for this Family," another voice muttered, low but deliberate.

"Poor Adriana. She only wanted to make peace."

Salvatore turned to his enforcers, his jaw set like granite. "Teach her a lesson."

The words froze the blood in my veins, and my heart stopped beating.

Before I could move, before I could run, the two soldiers stepped forward and grabbed me by the arms. Their grips were iron, unyielding.

"No—wait!" I cried, but it was already too late.

The first blow landed hard against my stomach. I doubled over, gasping for air that wouldn't come, stars exploding behind my eyes.

Another came against my back, sending me crashing to the cold tile floor.

I curled in on myself instinctively, wrapping my arms around my belly—around the secret I had been carrying for eight weeks, the child I had hoped might finally be allowed to live.

"Please—stop," I cried out, my voice breaking.

But they didn't.

They kept kicking and punching mercilessly as I screamed, their polished shoes connecting with my ribs, my spine, my arms as I tried desperately to shield myself.

I tried to protect my belly, especially my belly, but it was useless against their trained brutality.

Then I felt it.

A sharp, twisting pain tore through my abdomen, followed by a familiar rush of warmth down my thighs.

Blood.

I choked on a sob as I looked down. Crimson soaked through the pale blue silk of my dress, spreading like an accusation.

The fourth. They had taken the fourth.

The enforcers faltered, stepping back with something like unease flickering across their hardened faces.

"Don Pini," one of them said, hesitating, "she's bleeding badly—"

Salvatore stepped forward, his rage momentarily giving way to confusion as he registered the growing pool beneath me. He saw the blood.

I met his eyes with tears streaming down my face, my body broken and trembling. "Please..." I whispered. "Please, I was pregnant—"

He hesitated for a single moment. Something that might have been doubt crossed his features.

Then Adriana whimpered from the floor, her voice soft and pitiful, perfectly timed: "Salvatore... I don't feel so good... I think I might faint..."

That was all it took.

Salvatore turned away from me as though I were nothing—as though I had never been his wife, never carried his name, never bled for his legacy—and knelt beside her. "I've got you, Ana," he murmured, lifting her into his arms with a gentleness he had never once shown me.

She clung to him weakly, playing her role to perfection. But as her eyes met mine over his shoulder, she smirked—a small, triumphant curl of her lips that only I could see.

Salvatore didn't even glance at me as he walked out of the room, carrying her like she was something precious.

At the doorway, he finally spoke.

"I hope you've learned your lesson, Bianca." His voice was cold as a January burial. "Get yourself to the clinic. Clean yourself up. And remember your place."

Then he was gone.

Leaving me there on the bloodstained marble, severely injured and half-dead, surrounded by Family members who wouldn't lift a finger to help me.

One by one, they filed out, stepping around the blood like it was merely an inconvenience.

I tried to move, but the pain was too much. My body shook violently, and my vision blurred at the edges. The metallic scent of blood filled my nostrils—my blood, my child's blood, mixing with the expensive perfume that still lingered in the air.

I dragged myself slowly across the floor, leaving a trail of crimson behind me, until I reached the corner where my clutch had fallen earlier. I pulled out my phone with fingers that wouldn't stop trembling.

Then I called my father.

"Bianca?" Don Vittorio Valente's voice came through immediately, already sharp with concern. "What's wrong? Where are you?"

I couldn't hold back the tears anymore. My lips trembled as I tried to speak, tried to form words around the devastation in my chest.

"Papà... please," I whispered hoarsely, my voice barely a thread of sound. "Come take me home..."

"Where are you right now?" he asked immediately, and I could hear him already moving, already giving orders to someone in the background.

I gave him the directions as best I could, my words slurring together as consciousness began to slip away.

He cursed under his breath—words I had never heard him use, oaths that promised retribution. "I'm sending men right now. Don't move. Don't speak to anyone. Just hold on, figlia mia. You'll be fine. I swear to you, you'll be fine."

"Come... qui...ck..." I managed to mumble before the phone slipped from my blood-slicked hand, clattering against the tile.

The last thing I heard was my father calling my name over and over—Bianca, Bianca, stay with me—as the darkness rose up like a tide and pulled me under.