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.

Her expression twisted into something ugly and vicious.

"Someone teach this little tramp a lesson!" she shouted, her voice rising higher. "Whoever gives me the best show, I'll give them a million dollars!"

The effect was immediate.

It was as if a switch had been flipped.

The crowd, which had already been hostile, turned fully against me in an instant, their restraint gone. Greed and excitement flickered in their eyes as they began to close in. The courtyard outside the cathedral reception hall shrank around me, bodies pressing forward like soldiers who'd just been given orders.

"You still think you can challenge Serafina?" someone sneered. "She's going to be the sanctioned donna of the entire Vescari operation! What do you think you are?"

"Seriously, it's just a broken necklace," another voice scoffed dismissively. "You're used to losing things anyway, aren't you? Selling yourself for scraps. Why act so dramatic now?"

"Shameless goomah!" someone shouted. "You think you can just walk in here and act tough? You really think we'd be scared of you?"

Even Teresa joined in, unable to resist adding to the humiliation. Her earlier restraint was completely gone. Her thumb worked fast against the side of her forefinger, brushing off invisible chalk, faster and faster, as if the speed of the gesture could justify which side she'd chosen.

The next moment, I was shoved violently. My balance gave out, and I hit the ground hard. The stone beneath me was old and uneven, worn smooth by decades of Sunday processions. Pain shot through my body, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation burning through me. My hands clenched tightly as I struggled to push myself up, my entire body trembling with anger.

"You'll all regret this!" I spat through gritted teeth, my voice low but filled with warning.

The response I got was laughter.

Cruel, mocking laughter that echoed around me.

"Regret?" someone jeered. "What do you think this is, the old parish school? Just because you were the top student back then doesn't mean you're anything now!"

"Exactly!" another chimed in. "You're just a nobody now. Selling your body and still trying to act superior? Who do you think you're fooling?"

"Know your place, goomah!" someone yelled. "You should be grateful anyone's even paying attention to you!"

"And honestly, how low can you go?" another voice added viciously. "Seducing your old classmate's man? You're digging your own grave!"

Hands grabbed at me, forcing me down as I tried to get up. They pinned me against the ground, their insults raining down endlessly. Some spat at me, others laughed, and the noise became overwhelming, suffocating. The late-afternoon light caught the stained glass above the cathedral entrance, throwing red and gold across the stone where my cheek pressed flat.

Through the chaos, Serafina stepped forward slowly, her face filled with triumph. A wide, satisfied grin spread across her lips as she looked down at me.

Then, without hesitation, she lifted her foot and pressed it against my cheek, grinding it down as if to assert her dominance. The heel of her shoe bit into the bone. I could smell the leather polish on it, close enough to taste.

"Regret?" she said coldly, her voice filled with arrogance. "I've never regretted anything in my life."

She leaned in slightly, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"I'm actually curious," she continued, her tone mocking. "How exactly are you going to make me regret this?"

At that very moment, the distant roar of engines suddenly cut through the noise.

A fleet of armored town cars sped into view, their presence impossible to ignore as they came to a sharp stop right in front of the crowd. The lead car's grille bore the kind of custom armor plating that only Family vehicles carried.

The commotion faltered instantly.

Car doors opened one after another.

Damian stepped out from the lead car, his figure composed and imposing, flanked by a group of sharply dressed men who carried themselves with unmistakable authority. Soldiers. Every one of them. The kind who wore their suits like holsters.