I was probably the first person who ever dared to point a gun at the Capo.

The Soldato stationed around the villa tensed at the sight, their hands tightening around their weapons. One wrong move, and I'd be dead before I even had the chance to pull the trigger.

Even the Consigliere, usually composed, exclaimed, "Mrs. Church!"

But Derek didn't move. He didn't even flinch. He continued looking at me tenderly.

It was no wonder that he was the Capo of the mafia.

"Why, you shameless woman—"

Jimmy, hovering at the edge, made a move to intervene. The sound of his voice alone was enough to fill me with revulsion.

Those words he uttered—"She still has no idea I was the one who personally selected the men who had their way with her that night at the bar"—replayed in my head over and over like a curse.

I pointed the gun at Jimmy instead, then pulled the trigger without a moment of hesitation before anyone else could react.

Unfortunately, I had never practiced shooting before. The bullet missed his head, grazing his cheek instead, before shattering a bottle of red wine behind him.

Jimmy's eyes widened in stark terror, his face draining of all color.

Derek's hand closed over mine, effortlessly prying the gun away.

"Darling, this room is for our baby. A bloody mess would be rather inconvenient, wouldn't it?" Though his words were gentle, his eyes remained devoid of any genuine concern.

Then, his gaze flickered to the ice cream on the counter. His brows drew together as he reached out, stroking my belly with gentle fingers.

"Darling, shouldn't you be glad the IVF procedure was successful? Why are you so furious?"

I took a deep breath to calm myself down. Then, coldly, I said, "You said I could eliminate someone if I was upset. Or is the Capo going back on his word?"

Derek was caught off guard. After that, he ruffled my hair and teased, "Of course not. Not when you are Mrs. Church."

Upon saying that, he signaled to a maid nearby and instructed her to bring me a cup of hot tea. Just as she placed the cup of hot tea in my hands, he lifted his gun and pointed it between her eyes, and pulled the trigger.

Just like that, he blew the maid's brains out right in front of me. Her blood splattered across my face, dripping into the tea I held. The liquid turned red.

My stomach twisted violently. The ice cream from earlier churned inside me, and before I could stop it, I dropped to my knees and vomited.

Derek wiped his gun as if he hadn't just murdered someone in front of me. Then, he pulled me up from the floor and got someone else to bring me another cup of hot tea to cleanse my palate.

Even though I was shaking, I was too afraid to go against him. All I could do was drink the tea emotionlessly.

"Expectant mothers shouldn't be having ice cream. I am shocked to find food that could endanger my wife in our home.

"Anyone who endangers my wife's health endangers my son. That maid deserved to die," Derek warned, his gaze sweeping over the others in the villa, cold and unforgiving.

The body of the maid was left a grotesque tableau, a stark and deliberate reminder of the price of disobedience. He made no move to have it cleaned up.

"Darling, don't eat ice cream again. You've sacrificed too much for this pregnancy. You have to make sure that you give birth to a healthy baby, understand?"

I took a deep breath before I finally managed to force a smile. "I understand."

I once dreamed of having a baby.

For two years, I carried that dream like a fragile flame, only to watch it snuffed out again and again—five miscarriages and each one left me more broken than the last.

The doctor told me my chances of conceiving again were slim.

In order to have a child with Derek, I opted for IVF, which put me through all kinds of suffering.

In the end, just because Lilyanne said that she was afraid of pain and feared becoming ugly, I lost the right to become a mother. Instead, I was reduced to be nothing more than a surrogate mother for them.

My face was as white as a sheet.

Derek must have noticed my pale complexion. Perhaps worried that something would happen to the baby if I were physically unwell, he left to call the family physician after bringing me back to the bedroom.

Derek's phone was just by his pillow. I never knew his password since I had never once tried to check it before.

But tonight, something inside me shifted. I picked up the phone and entered a guess for his password. I punched in Lilyanne's birth date.

The lock screen flashed open.

I scoffed. Of course.

Derek's wallpaper was a picture of him and Lilyanne kissing.

It was an eyesore. I immediately moved to open his WhatsApp. His pinned chat was with Lilyanne. He had saved her contact as "babe". Meanwhile, my number had no terms of endearment even though I was his wife.

As I scrolled through their messages, I realized that all those nights Derek told me he was busy with work—he was talking to Lilyanne.

When she said she missed him, he called her. There were records of four- to five-hour long video calls.

Every time I begged him to try for a baby, he messaged Lilyanne, telling her he thought of her the whole time. The following day, he would feed me the morning-after pill.

My gaze fell upon a photograph of Lilyanne, revealing a bare chest marked by a round bullet scar, mirroring my own, positioned near her heart.

I knew for a fact she never had that scar before.

But a week after I told her about the man I saved—the injured, unconscious man from the mafia—she disappeared.

When she returned, Derek was at her side. He even declared that she was the woman who had saved his life, threatening anyone who dared to oppose her would face the wrath of the Church family.

It was absurd. Lilyanne, who'd always scorned the mafia, labeling them mere criminals and their territories "rat-infested sewers" would never have ventured into such places, let alone rescued Derek.

Yet she took my place and impersonated me as the person who saved Derek's life.

The memories, a relentless tide of pain, fueled my resolve. I clenched my fists, wiped away the last traces of tears and dialed a number.

"Dennis Hoppe," I said, my voice steady, "Capo of the new rising east coast mafia. You're the man who took down two gambling dens in the south within a week, and the one who wiped out the Fernando family in a single night.

"I can make you the Capo dei capi. Would you like to work together?

"Who am I, you ask?

"I am Nicole Accetta—the wife of your sole rival, Derek Church."