A surge of anger rose within me, sharp and undeniable. Without thinking, I tore off my designer coat, the one worth tens of thousands of laundered dollars, and flung it straight into a nearby trash can. The movement was abrupt, decisive. Then I stepped forward, locking my gaze onto Serafina, my voice steady despite everything.

"You should really ask Damian who the real goomah is," I said coldly, each word clear and firm, "before you start throwing accusations around like that."

The moment the words left my mouth, Serafina's expression twisted with rage. Without hesitation, she raised her hand and struck me hard across the face. The impact rang out loudly, echoing through the crowd. Two of her escort soldiers shifted but didn't intervene. They had their orders.

"Do you even need to ask?" she snapped, her voice trembling with fury. "Today is my wedding day with Damian! Isn't that obvious enough for you?"

Her anger only grew as she pointed toward my car, her voice rising higher. "I hate goomahs. Every single one of them deserves to be punished!"

Before anyone could react, she pulled out a key and viciously dragged it across the surface of my armored town car. The harsh scratching sound cut through the air as the words "Goomah, die!" were carved into the paint. One of the valets near the cathedral steps looked away. Nobody moved to stop her.

I stared at the jagged letters etched across the glossy surface, a chill creeping down my spine. For a brief moment, everything felt strangely distant. Then I looked up at her again, my voice calm but carrying an edge. "You'll soon realize just how ironic those words are."

Her fury only intensified at my response. "You shameless woman!" she screamed. "You steal my husband and then dare to mock me?"

Her eyes flicked toward the car again, her expression turning almost nauseated. "Just thinking about my husband's car being touched by someone like you makes me sick!"

Without another word, she bent down, grabbed a brick from the ground, and began smashing it against my car. The first strike shattered the window, glass scattering everywhere. Then came the headlights, the hood, every part she could reach. She showed no restraint, no hesitation. Her dress smoothed under one frantic palm between strikes, but she didn't stop.

"Serafina is going to be the donna of the entire Vescari operation!" someone in the crowd shouted excitedly. "We can't let her be disrespected by someone like Bianca!"

As if that single sentence gave them permission, the crowd surged forward. People picked up whatever they could find: stones, sticks, even metal rods, and joined in the destruction. The sound of smashing glass and tearing metal filled the air. After breaking the windows, some of them even climbed inside, ripping apart the seats and wrecking the interior with wild abandon. The cathedral security detail watched from the steps and did nothing. In this neighborhood, the guest list was the law.

In a matter of moments, my pristine town car was reduced to a mangled wreck.

I stood there, watching them with a cold, unblinking gaze. There was no panic, no pleading. Only a quiet, chilling calm. My thumb found the jagged edge of my Blackwood's cross beneath my collar, pressing hard enough to feel the metal bite. "I hope when it's time for you to pay for all of this," I said slowly, "you'll still be this enthusiastic about taking responsibility."

But my words meant nothing to them. It was as if I didn't exist at all.

At that moment, one of Serafina's lackeys pried open the trunk and suddenly shouted, "Hey! Look at this! She's got a bunch of expensive stuff hidden in here!"

Serafina immediately walked over, curiosity flashing in her eyes. She reached inside and pulled out a painting, examining it briefly before letting out a mocking laugh. "A woman who sells herself trying to act like a collector?" she sneered. "Give me a break."

I couldn't help but speak, my tone low but firm. "Those items are worth far more than the car. Especially that painting. You'd better be careful."

The contents of my trunk were carefully selected pieces I had acquired at private auctions through the Family's art-laundering channels, items I hadn't yet had the chance to display at the estate. Each one was valuable beyond measure.

But my warning only seemed to provoke her further.

"It's an insult for something like you to own a masterpiece!" Serafina snapped, her face twisting with disdain. "Trash like you should only have trash!"

Before I could react, she tore the painting apart right in front of me, ripping it into pieces without the slightest hesitation. Then she threw the shredded fragments to the ground and stomped on them repeatedly, her expression filled with vicious satisfaction.

Teresa, who had been watching from the side, suddenly gasped as she leaned closer to the ruined pieces. Her thumb rubbed quick and nervous against the side of her forefinger. "That painting... it's an original from a master," she said, her voice shaking. "I heard it started at a three-hundred-million-dollar auction."

Serafina didn't even flinch. She simply shrugged, completely unconcerned. "So what if it's worth three hundred million?" she said dismissively. "That's still my husband's money."

She crossed her arms, her tone arrogant and absolute. "And what belongs to him belongs to me. I can do whatever I want with my own things."

Her words were so absurd that for a moment, I didn't even know how to respond.

Damian, the man they all worshipped as some powerful Don, was nothing more than an opportunist with no real foundation. Even after being given control of the Bellandi operations, he had managed to bleed nearly half the value from the Family's legitimate fronts through sheer incompetence. If not for certain constraints my Bellandi had imposed, I would have had him stripped of his crew long ago.

Yet in their eyes, he was a figure to admire, someone worth envying.

With Serafina taking the lead, the others eagerly followed, tearing through the remaining contents of my trunk, destroying everything they could get their hands on. Laundered collectibles, church gifts meant for display in the compound's private gallery, pieces that had passed through three intermediaries before reaching me. Watching them descend into such madness, I realized there was no point in trying to stop them.

Silently, I took out my phone and prepared to call the police.

But before I could even dial, Serafina suddenly lunged at me, snatching the phone from my hand and smashing it onto the ground with force. The screen shattered instantly.

"Calling the cops now?" she scoffed, glaring at me. "You shameless goomah. What right do you have?"

Her gaze then shifted downward, landing on the pendant around my neck. The cross my Blackwood had carried back from her pilgrimage. Serafina's eyes lit up with interest, a greedy glint flashing across them. "That necklace looks expensive," she said slowly. "Did you buy it with my husband's money too?"

Before I could react, she reached out and yanked the necklace off my neck with brutal force.

The sudden pain caught me off guard. My breath hitched as I instinctively reached for it, my face paling. "Give it back!" I shouted, my voice sharp with urgency.

My thumb found nothing where the jagged edge of the cross should have been. Just bare skin, and a rawness at my throat where the chain had torn free.

Seeing the panic flash across my face, Serafina's lips curled into a slow, satisfied smirk. Her eyes gleamed with unmistakable malice, as if she had finally found the reaction she'd been waiting for.

"Getting nervous now, are we?" she mocked, lifting the necklace slightly as it dangled from her fingers. "This must be worth quite a lot, huh?"

A surge of urgency and desperation rushed through me, tightening my chest. I shook my head immediately, my voice trembling despite my effort to stay composed.

"It's not about the money," I said quickly, my eyes fixed on the necklace in her hand. "It's important to me. Just give it back."

Without thinking, I stepped forward and reached out, trying to snatch it from her grasp. My movements were instinctive, driven by something far deeper than reason.

That cross was never just an accessory. It wasn't something that could be measured by its price or replaced with something more expensive. It was a talisman, something my Blackwood had fought desperately to obtain for me, something that carried a piece of her life within it.

When I was a child, I had been frail and sickly. I spent most of my days confined to bed, my body weak and unresponsive. When I was four years old, I fell into a deep coma, my small body barely clinging to life. The doctors had already told my parents to prepare themselves for the worst, their words heavy and final, as if there was nothing more they could do.

But my Blackwood refused to accept that fate.

She went to the old cathedral on Mulberry Street, praying day and night with unwavering determination. When prayers alone didn't seem enough, she made the pilgrimage to the hillside sanctuary outside the city, her body enduring the scorching summer heat. Each step was a struggle, her strength draining away, but she kept going, driven by a single thought—to save me. The priest there had told her that only those who climbed on foot, suffering every stone of the path, could receive the blessed cross kept behind the altar.

By the time she reached the top and obtained that cross, she was on the verge of collapsing. Her face was pale, her breathing shallow, yet she held onto it as if it were the only thing keeping her standing. The old women of the neighborhood said such devotion could move even the saints to weep.

And somehow, it did.

Against all odds, I woke up.

I survived the coma that should have taken my life. But my Blackwood paid the price for that miracle. Her health deteriorated rapidly after that, her body never recovering from what she had endured.

On her deathbed, with what little strength she had left, she placed that cross into my hands. Her voice was weak but firm as she told me to keep it safe, to never let it be lost. Before saying anything else, she pressed her thumb in a small cross over my knuckles. It was the last warning and the last comfort at once.

From that day on, I never took it off. It stayed close to my heart, a constant reminder of her love, her sacrifice, and the life she had fought so hard to preserve for me. It wasn't just jewelry. It was everything.

And now, it was in Serafina's hands.

"Try and take it from me," Serafina taunted, her voice dripping with cruelty. "I'll make sure it's destroyed right in front of you!"

Before I could even react, she loosened her grip and flung the cross onto the ground with force.

Time seemed to freeze for a split second.

Then came the sound.

A sharp, brittle crack echoed through the air as the blessed pendant hit the pavement and shattered instantly. The fragments scattered in every direction, tiny pieces glinting under the light before coming to rest on the ground. The courtyard went silent. Even the soldiers by the gate stopped moving.

"No!"

The word tore out of my throat, raw and desperate.

My heart dropped as if it had been ripped out of my chest. It felt like a blade had been plunged straight into me, twisting mercilessly as I stared at the broken remains of the only thing my Blackwood had left me. My vision blurred, my breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as the world around me seemed to collapse inward. My thumb reached for the jagged edge of the cross at my collarbone and found nothing. Just skin. Just absence.

Something inside me snapped.

"You're a monster!" I shouted, my voice shaking with uncontrollable rage.

Before I could stop myself, my hand lashed out. The sound of the slap rang loudly as it landed across Serafina's face, the force of it carrying all the grief and fury I could no longer contain. In a place where the wrong word could end a man, I had struck the woman who thought she was the Don's bride in front of everyone.

For a brief moment, everything went silent.

Then Serafina shrieked, her hand flying to her cheek as her eyes burned with fury.

"You bitch! How dare you hit me?" she screamed, her voice sharp enough to pierce through the crowd.