My husband, Don Lorenzo, ran New York's underworld. And he's the one who put me in prison.

All because his childhood flame, Cassandra Viti—the Viti family princess—killed my father.

I was the first one on the scene. The Feds caught me standing over the body.

He faked the evidence. Made sure I took the fall.

I spent three years in hell.

His apology? A single sentence and an unlimited black card.

"I owe Cassandra three wishes. Once you're out, once I've paid my debt to her, you'll be my Donna again."

My husband’s old flame killed my father, and I did the time for it. Three years.

“Inmate 7734. Pack your shit. You’re out.”

I slowly got to my feet.

The concrete walls were covered in scratches. Every single one clawed there by my own nails. A tally of my despair.

“Move it!” the guard barked, tapping his baton.

I walked the long corridor, my footsteps echoing over the ghosts of the past three years.

“Isabella Rossi, congratulations on your freedom.” The warden’s smile was so fake it hurt to look at. “Your husband has people waiting for you outside.”

Husband?

I almost laughed.

I pushed open the last gate. The sunlight was so bright it made me squint.

I hadn't seen light like that in three years.

I stared at the black Lincoln parked by the curb.

I knew the license plate, but the man leaning against the door wasn't my so-called husband.

It was Marco, Lorenzo’s right-hand man.

“Bella.” Marco hurried over. “The Don got held up. He sent me.”

Held up? Or with someone more important?

A bitter taste filled my mouth. I pulled open the back door and got in.

“Ma’am, the boss got you some clothes.” Marco handed me an expensive-looking bag. “He said… he said you could change in the car.”

Change.

The pity and disgust in Marco's eyes stung.

Was he disgusted by the smell of prison on me?

I sat in the back and, not caring about Marco’s eyes in the rearview mirror, I stripped off my prison uniform.

My emaciated body, all sharp angles and jutting ribs, met the cool air of the car.

My shame had been torn to shreds by Lorenzo himself, the day I stood in that courtroom three years ago.

I closed my eyes. The memories flooded back.

The trial. Three years ago.

Don Lorenzo Romano, the Godfather who controlled half of New York’s underworld.

He stood on the witness stand in his expensive, tailored suit. He was elegant. He was cruel. And he showed the jury my deepest scars—the ones no one could see.

“Members of the jury,” Lorenzo’s voice echoed, cold and calm. “My wife, Isabella Rossi, was six years old when she watched her mother get shot to death. Her father ran, leaving her mother behind to die.”

I snapped my head up to look at him, unable to believe my ears.

That was my deepest wound.

The secret I only ever told him, after he held me through countless nightmares.

“She suffers from severe PTSD,” Lorenzo continued, his voice devoid of emotion. “It causes violent, vengeful outbursts.”

“No!” I screamed. “Lorenzo, what are you saying?”

He didn’t look at me. He didn’t even pause.

“Given her mental state, and her hatred for her dead father, I believe she had every reason and capability to commit this murder.”

He sold me out.

All because the real killer—the delicate Cassandra Viti, who could break his heart with a single tear—had cried and whispered, “Lorenzo, I don’t want to go to jail. I’ll die in there.”

“Lorenzo, you can’t do this to me!” I fought against the guards, trying to get to him. “You promised you’d protect me!”

He finally looked at me. His eyes were cold, like I was a stranger.

“Isabella, please. Calm down.”

Calm down?

The love of my life was pushing me into an abyss.

I stared out the window, my heart turning to ash.

Later, Lorenzo had visited me in prison. He held the phone on the other side of the glass, his face twisted in pain. “Bella, it’s not a promise. It’s a blood oath. An old one between our families. The Romano heir must grant the Viti heir three wishes. No questions. If I refuse, I’m an oath-breaker. The Commission will come for us, and everything my father built will turn to dust. I’m protecting her to protect us. Just hold on. Once this is done, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

Three years in a cell can’t be ‘made up.’

He was a goddamn liar.

“Ma’am? Ma’am?”

Marco’s voice pulled me back.

The car had stopped.

I looked out the window. We were in front of a lavish private club.

Dozens of men in black suits stood guard at the entrance.

This wasn’t the way home.

“Where are we?”

“The boss is waiting inside,” Marco said, opening my door.

Just as I stepped out, I heard a familiar voice.

“Bella!”

Lorenzo walked out of the club, his face as handsome and suffocating as ever.

He looked more powerful, more commanding than he did three years ago.

He’d done well for himself while I rotted in a cell.

And me?

I looked at my reflection in the car window—skin and bones, pale, like a ghost clawed from a grave.

Lorenzo got closer, moving to hug me. I took a step back.

“Bella, you’re so thin,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”

Missed me?

Missed me while you were what? Traveling the world with Cassandra?

“Lorenzo.” My voice was so hoarse I barely recognized it. “Get out of my way.”

A flash of hurt crossed his face, but he covered it with a smile.

“Bella, come on,” he said, holding out his hand. “Cassandra threw a welcome home party for you. We’re just waiting on you.”

Cassandra?

A welcome home party from her? The woman who threw me into hell now wants to play the forgiving angel?

I stared at the perfect mask Lorenzo wore—the mask of the Don—and felt sick to my stomach.

“She’s in there?”

“Of course,” Lorenzo said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Cassandra’s been setting up since this morning. Didn’t even stop for lunch. She… she really wants to make it up to you.”

Make it up to me? For killing my father and stealing my life? With a party?

Lorenzo saw my blank expression, and a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. It was the look of a man whose patience was wearing thin. “Bella, Cassandra’s gesture…”

“What gesture?” I cut him off, my voice flat.

His expression hardened. Finally, he just said, “Get inside.”

I walked straight for the main doors. Lorenzo was right behind me. The scent of his expensive cologne, once my safe harbor, now felt like poison in my lungs.

Before we even entered, the chatter from inside slithered out like snakes.

“I heard the father-killer is back.”

“The Don is too merciful. If it were me, I’d have let her rot in that cell.”

“A woman with no family name. How is she fit to be the Donna of the Romano family?”

The words were needles, pricking at nerves I thought were long dead.

Lorenzo’s steps faltered. His face darkened.

He instinctively reached for me. An old habit—to pull me into his arms, to shield me from the world.

That was how he used to protect me. The proof that he loved me.

But now, I calmly stepped aside, avoiding his touch.

“Don’t touch me.”

Lorenzo’s hand froze in mid-air. Real pain, just for a second, flashed in his eyes.

“Bella…”

I looked at his hands. “The same hands that once shielded me from the world,” I whispered, “are the ones that pushed me into the fire.”

His body went rigid. His face turned pale.

The gossip inside continued, getting louder, bolder.

Lorenzo snapped.

He kicked open the heavy oak doors.

BOOM—

The sound silenced the entire hall. Every head turned in shock to see him, and me, standing in the doorway.

Lorenzo’s eyes were like ice as he swept them across the room. His voice was low, dangerous, laced with the promise of violence.

“This is Isabella Romano. My wife. The Donna of the Romano family. Her honor is my honor.” He paused, forcing the words through his teeth. “Anyone disrespects her again, they get a bullet. A lesson in manners.”

The room was dead silent.

That was the power of Don Lorenzo Romano.

I felt a flash of irony. He was defending an "honor" that he himself had destroyed.

This sudden protection gave me a sliver of false hope.

Maybe… he still cared.

“Lorenzo…”

A soft voice cut through the silence.

I saw Cassandra, dressed in a pristine white Chanel suit, step out from the crowd.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, making her look like a frightened deer. Beautiful and innocent.

Three years had only made her more stunning.

She walked straight to me, tears in her eyes, her voice trembling. “Bella… I… I’m so… so sorry…”

She reached for my hand. I didn’t move.

“Sorry?” I looked at her. “What for?”

Cassandra bit her lip, a tear rolling perfectly down her cheek. “I know… because of me… you’ve been through so much…”

Been through so much?

She orchestrated a murder, and I went to prison for it. That’s what she calls “going through so much”?

Lorenzo immediately stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Cassandra’s shoulder. “Cassandra, don’t cry. It’s not your fault.”

Not her fault?

Then whose was it? Mine?

“Bella,” Lorenzo turned to me, his tone a mix of reprimand and command. “Cassandra worked all day on this party.”

I watched them. One playing the innocent victim, the other the devoted protector.

And I was the ungrateful bitch.

Cassandra took two glasses of red wine from a passing waiter’s tray and downed one of them.

Then, she held the other out to me, her hands trembling.

A flash of hatred in her eyes was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a look of deep regret and pleading.

“Bella, I am officially apologizing to you,” she choked out, her gaze flickering past me to Lorenzo. “Can you… can you forgive me?”

I stared at the glass of blood-red wine in Cassandra's hand. I didn't move.

This wasn't an apology. It was a performance.

A show for Lorenzo, a play about forgiveness and reconciliation. And I was the prop that had to play along.

"I don't drink," I said, my voice dead flat.

Cassandra's face froze. Annoyance flashed in her eyes.

The guests started whispering immediately. Their stares felt like needles.

"So ungrateful."

"Miss Viti is being so gracious, and she's acting like this?"

Lorenzo's face darkened completely.

He stepped up beside me, his voice low and threatening. "Bella, don't make a scene. Drink it."

I looked up, straight into his deep eyes. They used to be my entire sky.

"And if I don't?"

"This isn’t a request," he said, his voice dropping. "This is how it ends. Drink it."

An end?

My surrender, so he could put a neat little bow on his betrayal?

I let out a cold laugh and turned my head away.

Lorenzo was silent for a moment. The air felt thick enough to cut.

When he spoke again, he used the only weapon he had left that could destroy me.

"Drink the wine," he said, his voice slow, a devil's whisper, "and I'll take you to see Nonna."

Nonna.

My heart seized. It felt like a fist was crushing it. I couldn't breathe.

She was the only family I had left in the world. My only weakness.

He knew. He always knew.

I looked at him, the man I once loved with all my soul, using my most cherished person to force this humiliation down my throat.

I snatched the glass from Cassandra’s hand. Without looking at anyone, I tilted my head back and drank it all.

The cold liquid slid down my throat, with a faint, bitter aftertaste.

A triumphant glint appeared in Cassandra's eyes, quickly replaced by a look of tearful gratitude. "Oh, Bella! I knew you'd forgive me!"

Fake applause echoed through the room. Lorenzo seemed to relax. He’d completed his "mission."

He turned back to Cassandra and began comforting her, like soothing a frightened child.

His attention, once a precious thing that was all mine, was now being wasted on another woman.

Guest after guest came up to me, glasses in hand.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Romano!"

"To your return, Ma'am!"

I went through the motions, numb. But my stomach was starting to churn.

A familiar pain was waking up deep in my abdomen.

An old injury from prison.

The bitterness from the wine was now spreading through my blood.

My vision started to blur. The noise of the party twisted and warped into the sound of a cell door slamming shut.

"Be careful, don't touch the cut," I heard Lorenzo's gentle voice.

I turned my head. He was carefully holding Cassandra's wrist, where there was a tiny, almost invisible scratch.

Meanwhile, a thousand knives were twisting in my gut.

Cold sweat soaked my back.

I instinctively pressed a hand to my stomach. My fingertips were ice.

"Lorenzo..." I whispered his name, my voice barely audible.

He didn't look up. He was talking to Cassandra. "Is the steak too tough? I'll have them make you another one."

The pain was making my vision go black. I couldn't hold on.

My throat tightened. A metallic taste filled my mouth.

Cough.

A trickle of blood escaped my lips. It dripped onto my white dress, a single red flower blooming on the fabric.

My body swayed. Surrounded by a sea of shocked faces and gawking eyes, I collapsed.

In the last second before I lost consciousness, I heard Lorenzo’s stunned voice, and Cassandra’s shriek of thinly veiled delight.

I woke up to the familiar ceiling of the family's private clinic.

Lorenzo was sitting by the bed. He'd changed into a clean shirt. His face was dark.

"The doctor said it was just a stomach spasm from anxiety," he said, his voice cold as ice. "It's nothing serious."

Nothing serious?

I coughed up blood.

“Isabella,” he cut me off, his eyes like chips of ice. “When did you become such a good actress? So damn calculating?”