I barely slept, the vile images seared into my mind. The penthouse wasn't just dirty; it was tainted. It would need to be gutted, fumigated, and exorcised. The next morning, as I was arranging for a security team to forcibly remove its unwanted occupants, a delivery arrived at my suite.

It was an engagement invitation.

For Marco Falcone and Sofia Rossi.

But it wasn't the invitation that sent a blind rage through me. It was the photos circulating on social media. Sofia, preening for the camera, was wearing my mother's heirloom—a sapphire necklace passed down for three generations of Rossi women.

My mother had placed that necklace around my neck on her deathbed. And Marco, the man who knew its history, had given it to his whore.

I had to get it back.

At seven that evening, I arrived at the address on the invitation—Marco's high-rise apartment.

The moment I stepped out of the elevator, a group of Marco's men—his thugs—spotted me. They swaggered over, circling me like hyenas.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," one of them sneered. "Come to watch the boss get engaged to a real woman?"

"Get out of my way." I tried to push past them.

They pressed in closer, their breath stinking of cheap whiskey and malice.

"Heard you're fucking the Don now," a man with a jagged scar across his face leered. "Tsk, tsk. Guess you like climbing the ladder on your back, huh?"

"Shut up," I said, my voice dangerously low.

A wave of profound sadness washed over me—sadness for my own blindness. For five years, I had dedicated myself to this family, and in their eyes, I was never their future Donna. I was just a stepping stone.

"Ooh, she's got a temper," Scarface taunted. He then deliberately tipped his glass, drenching the front of my designer gown in whiskey. "There. Now you look the part."

The others roared with laughter. One of them grabbed the back of my dress, the fabric straining. I struggled, but I was hopelessly outnumbered.

"That's enough!" A sharp voice cut through the jeers.

Marco and Sofia emerged from the apartment. They were impeccably dressed in custom formalwear, the picture of a happy couple. The sapphire necklace glittered at Sofia's throat, a deep blue mocking me.

"What are you doing?" Marco scowled at his men.

"Boss, she was trying to crash the party," Scarface lied smoothly.

Sofia glided towards me, her hand going to the necklace in a deliberately provocative gesture. "Oh, Lydia. Did you come for this? Marco said it looks so much better on a real woman."

"That was my mother's. Give it back," I said, my gaze locked on hers.

Sofia feigned a moment of consideration, then her lips curled into a vicious smile. "If you want it that badly, I suppose you could earn it."

"What's the condition?"

She extended a foot shod in a glittering high heel. "Get on your knees and shine my shoes. With your tongue. If you do a good job, I'll think about it."

"Sofia!" An older woman's voice interjected. Marco's mother. "How can you treat Lydia this way? She was almost one of us."

A flicker of hope ignited within me. Maybe she, at least, had some decency.

Her next words extinguished it. "Lydia, for the sake of peace, just do as she says. Sofia is pregnant with Marco's second child. We can't have her getting upset."

Sofia placed a triumphant hand on her slightly rounded belly, her eyes daring me.

I didn't care about her or her supposed child. But my dignity was not for sale.

"I refuse." I turned to leave. "And you will all pay for this."

If I couldn't get the necklace back tonight, I would find another way. A much more permanent one.

"Stop her," Marco commanded, his voice laced with cold fury.

His thugs instantly blocked my path, their hands grabbing at me, rough and invasive. I fought, but their grips were like iron.

Marco stepped in front of me, tilting my chin up with his fingers, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Lydia, I'll give you one last chance. Beg for my forgiveness. Apologize for your behavior. And maybe I'll be merciful."

My answer was a glob of spit on his polished shoe. "In your dreams."

"Take her to the back room. Teach her some respect," Marco’s voice was filled with sadistic pleasure. "Make her understand her place."

They started dragging me away. Despair began to set in. And then—

BOOM!

The main door was kicked off its hinges, the frame splintering as it slammed into the wall.

A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, exuding an aura of absolute menace. Dressed in a black bespoke suit, his gray eyes were chips of ice. Lorenzo Moretti stood there like the god of vengeance, flanked by a dozen of his men, all heavily armed.

"Which one of you," he said, his voice a low, lethal growl that echoed in the sudden silence, "dared to touch my wife?"