For eight years, I drained the color from my life—black, white, and gray—to be the perfect Donna for Zeno, the ruthless Don of the Falcone Famiglia. He never let me wear red. Said it drew too much attention.

Then the photos came. My husband in a fluorescent yellow cartoon suit. A color he had never once allowed in our bedroom.Our arranged marriage was the bedrock of a multi-billion-dollar syndicate alliance.

But then, photos leaked of my untouchable husband in a fluffy cartoon mascot suit, handing spun sugar to a low-level civilian girl named Liana.

When I tried to enforce our world's strict hierarchy, Zeno publicly humiliated me to protect her. The final blow came when Liana orchestrated a fake assassination attempt on herself. Zeno stormed into my territory, threw photos of her shattered arm on my mahogany desk, and dragged me to her clinic room. When the girl faked a panic attack, he dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around her to physically shield her from my sight.

"Apologize, Bianca. Now."

He demanded, treating his wife and Queen like a monstrous threat.

I stared at the man I had pledged my life to. I couldn't understand how the brilliant, calculating 'Iceman' could be so easily blinded by a street rat's cheap tears. I had sacrificed my identity and youth to build his empire, yet he trampled my honor without a second thought.

My pride bled, but my heart finally turned to ash.

"Strike three."

I whispered, turning my back on them. I walked out of the clinic, called my lawyers to draft a formal mafia divorce, and withdrew every billion from his accounts.

Chapter 1

Bianca POV:

As I pressed my family seal into the cooling wax of a three-billion-dollar treaty, a series of leaked photographs flashed across the surface of my secure tablet. A quiet intake of air was the only sound I made.

There he was: my husband, the untouchable Don of the Falcone Famiglia, encased in the plush, foolish costume of a cartoon mascot, extending a stick of spun sugar to a civilian girl.

If I did not cauterize this breach of dignity, the rival syndicates would scent the weakness bleeding into the water and tear apart the fifty shipping routes and three hundred loyal soldiers that constituted our power.

I stared at the screen, the rhythmic thud of blood against my own eardrums a maddening metronome.

Zeno Falcone was known as the Iceman. He was an executioner in a bespoke suit-a man whose hands were legally clean, but whose reign was built on a foundation of corpses.

Yet in these grainy images, the Don was radiating a domestic warmth I had not witnessed in eight years of our arranged union.

He was looking down at Liana Romano with an unguarded, protective cast to his eyes.

A hollow space opened up behind my ribs, as if a vital organ had been surgically removed.

I pushed the tablet across the polished mahogany toward my syndicate assistant.

"Find the manufacturer of that mascot suit," I ordered, my voice a flat, even line. "Acquire their entire tri-state inventory. I do not care if it is ten or fifty. Have them delivered to the penthouse."

My assistant nodded, his face pale.

"Then instruct the Rossi hackers to purge every copy of these images from the network," I continued, the tone permitting no failure. "Enforce the code of silence. Anyone found possessing a copy forfeits their fingers."

I stood, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles from my monochromatic skirt. For eight years, I had drained the color from my wardrobe, a deliberate effort to become a seamless part of Zeno's rigid, achromatic world.

I walked out of the boardroom and into my bulletproof SUV.

"The Falcone Estate," I told the driver.

The ancestral home of the Falcone Famiglia was a fortress of stone and shadow. I walked past the armed sentries, their heads bowing as their Queen passed.

I went straight to the master wing, where Nonna Rosa lay in her massive four-poster bed.

The Matriarch of the Falcone Famiglia was fading, the oxygen machine's soft hiss punctuating the dim quiet of the room.

I sat on the edge of her bed and took her frail hand.

She opened her eyes, their merciless clarity undimmed by her failing health.

"I have seen the photographs, Bianca," she rasped.

Her voice was thin, like dry leaves scraping across stone, but it carried the weight of a woman who had ruled from the shadows.

"Liana claims a life debt, for pulling me behind a vehicle during the shootout," Nonna Rosa continued, her grip tightening. "But a rat saving a lion does not make the rat a queen."

Nonna Rosa squeezed my fingers, the pressure of her bones a surprising, urgent message against my own.

"She has a rat's ambition. Do not let her street-level tricks shake your throne. You are the only Donna of this family."

Heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Zeno entered through the double doors.

He was out of the costume, back in his charcoal three-piece armor. A faint grinding of molars could be heard from deep in his mouth, making the line of his cheek seem exceedingly sharp. His dark eyes scanned the room before landing on me.

Behind his massive frame, a small figure scurried into the room.

Liana.

She was wearing faded jeans and an oversized sweater, clutching a clipboard to her chest like a shield.

Zeno walked to my side, placing a heavy, possessive hand on my shoulder.

"You did not inform my security of your departure from headquarters, Bianca," he said.

His voice was a low rumble, laced with the authority of a man demanding submission.

"I was not aware I required a pass to visit my own grandmother-in-law," I replied.

I did not look at him. My eyes remained on Liana.

Liana took a hesitant step forward, her eyes wide.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Falcone," she murmured. "We were at the amusement park for the new Famiglia charity. Zeno was so kind to help me with the orphans."

She offered a timid smile.

"Could you step aside? I need to check the Matriarch's vitals. It is part of my duties."

A heavy silence fell.

A senior Falcone maid standing by the curtains let out a sharp, mocking scoff.

"You are an Associate," the maid spat. "You do not ask the Donna to step aside. You wait until she dismisses you."

Liana flinched, shrinking back as if struck. Tears welled in her eyes.

Zeno's presence darkened the room. He turned his gaze on the maid.

"Take her to the basement," he ordered his men, his voice devoid of warmth. "A broken jaw will teach her how to speak in my house."

Two guards stepped forward.

I stood, my chair scraping loudly against the hardwood.

"No one touches her," I commanded.

I met Zeno's eyes. The air between us felt thin and charged.

"She is enforcing the hierarchy you built, Zeno," I challenged. "Or have you forgotten your own laws?"

Zeno stared at me. He was a man who never compromised, a man who demanded obedience.

But I was not a pawn. I was the heir to the Rossi Famiglia.

He let out a slow, controlled breath. He reached out and wrapped his large, calloused hand around my wrist, pulling me a fraction closer.

"Fine," he gritted out. "She keeps her jaw."

Liana let out a loud sob.

"I am just trying to do my job!" she cried. "I know I am lower class. I do not have your expensive clothes or your power, Mrs. Falcone. But do I not deserve basic respect?"

I looked down at her cheap sneakers, my own face a carefully composed mask.

"What gives a pawn the right to demand respect from a Donna?" I asked softly. "Especially after dragging my husband into a public spectacle."

Liana gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. She looked up at Zeno, her eyes pleading.

Zeno shifted his weight.

He took half a step forward, placing his broad shoulders directly between me and Liana.

He used his massive frame to eclipse my view of her, treating my mere presence as a loaded gun pointed at her head.

"Take her to the secondary safe house," he ordered his men, his tone leaving no room for argument. He did not look at her as she was escorted out, still weeping. Instead, he turned his imposing frame toward me, his heavy hand sliding down to grip my elbow with an inescapable pressure.

"We are going back to the penthouse, Bianca," he murmured, his voice a dark, final rumble. "Now."

Bianca POV

The interior of the bulletproof Maybach was silent.

Zeno sat beside me, his frame taking up the majority of the leather seat. The scent of his bespoke cologne was tainted by the faint, sickly sweet smell of amusement park sugar.

The odor turned my stomach.

He loosened his silk tie, his dark eyes staring at the partition.

"The park was a legitimate front. The photographs were an oversight," his voice was flat, an explanation that sounded more like a business report. "Liana is a civilian. She does not understand our world. She required guidance."

I looked out the tinted window at the blurring city lights.

"Guidance does not require a cartoon suit, Zeno."

He did not reply.

The car pulled into the subterranean garage of our high-rise. The elevator ride to the penthouse was suffocating.

When the metal doors slid open, Zeno froze.

The massive, minimalist living room was flooded with color.

Two dozen identical, fluffy cartoon mascot suits were piled on the Italian leather sofas, spilling onto the pristine white rugs.

"What is this?"

Zeno's voice dropped an octave, a dangerous vibration in the still air.

I dropped my handbag onto a glass table with a sharp clack.

"If you enjoy civilian games, you should play them with your wife. Put one on."

"Bianca."

He uttered my name like a threat. The authority of a Don being openly mocked filled the room.

He stepped toward me, his heavy shoes sinking into the rug. He reached out and grabbed my waist, pulling me hard against his chest.

His grip was bruising.

He let out a dark, humorless chuckle, his breath fanning across my neck.

"Are you jealous? I have no romantic feelings for the girl. She is under The Family's protection. That is all."

I placed my hands flat against his chest, feeling the steady, calm beat of his heart. But I knew what he wouldn't admit—Nonna Rosa's failing health had made him desperate to believe in anyone who claimed to have saved her. Liana wasn't his mistress. She was his moral loophole.

"You gave me this title. You gave me this crown. But you reserve your leniency for an outsider."

Zeno's jaw tightened. He detested these conversations, operating in a world of logic and force.

"How do I make amends? Name it."

I pointed to the pile of neon fabric.

"Wear the suit. Now."

Zeno looked at the ridiculous costumes. Two Falcone soldiers and a maid stood near the hallway, their eyes fixed on the floor, terrified to witness their Don's humiliation.

"Leave us," Zeno barked.

I stepped out of his grip.

"No. They stay. Why can you degrade your image in public for her, but not in your own fortress for me?"

Zeno's pride snapped. The rigid monster inside him rejected the demand.

He glared at me, his eyes turning to black ice.

"Enough, Bianca. This is childish."

He turned his back on me and walked toward his study.

I watched his shoulders disappear. Expecting him to bend his pride was a useless endeavor.

I walked into our master suite. The room always smelled of expensive leather and dry-cleaning chemicals, like a dust-proof glass cabinet displaying exquisite specimens.

I set my phone on the nightstand.

My eyes locked onto his personal keys resting on the marble surface.

Dangling next to the heavy fob for the Maybach was a cheap, plastic pink pig keychain.

Liana's zodiac sign.

The air in the room grew thin, each breath a conscious effort.

Zeno was an extreme neat freak. He never allowed anything unnecessary in his pockets. Yet, Liana's influence had breached his most private territory.

I picked up the keys. The cheap plastic felt greasy against my skin.

I dropped them back onto the marble with a loud clatter.

I walked into my massive closet. I deliberately bypassed the endless rows of dark suits I had worn for eight years.

I reached into the very back and pulled out a pale blue designer nightgown.

It was a color. It was a rebellion.

I slipped it on, letting the cool silk cling to my skin.

Hours later, the bedroom door opened. The lights remained off.

Zeno climbed into the bed. He reached out in the dark, his large hands gripping my hips and pulling me flush against his hard body.

He noticed the silk. He noticed the change.

His grip tightened, his territorial possessiveness flaring. He rolled over, pinning me to the mattress.

It was an aggressive, heavy encounter-a hallmark of our arranged bond. He claimed my body with a ruthless efficiency, his mouth hot against my skin, silently demanding submission.

I gave him my body, my mind detached, my gaze fixed on the subtle play of shadows on the dark ceiling.

When his breathing slowed, he rested his head in the crook of my neck.

I turned my face slightly, my lips brushing against his ear.

"Do not let me down, Zeno."

Bianca POV:

The next morning, the penthouse living room was empty.

Zeno's soldiers had cleared away the mascot suits before sunrise, leaving no trace of the neon fabric on the white rugs.

My phone vibrated against the glass dining table.

It was a secure message from Zeno.

Attached was a photo of him in his dark syndicate office, but resting on his mahogany desk was a single dragon mascot head.

My zodiac sign.

The text read: "Amends. I will pick you up for dinner."

A maid stepped into the dining area, pouring my coffee.

"The Don ordered his men to find the dragon, Donna," she murmured. "To honor you."

I looked at the screen, and the ice in my chest thawed a fraction.

Perhaps the Don was remembering where his loyalty belonged.

I locked the screen, typing a reply: "I will be ready at seven."

That evening, I did not reach for my usual black attire. I armed myself in a blood-red designer dress, the silk fabric slashing across my collarbone and clinging to every curve.

When Zeno walked into the penthouse, his footsteps halted.

His dark eyes swept over me, a possessive fire igniting in his gaze. He crossed the room in three long strides, wrapping a heavy arm around my waist.

"Red suits you," he murmured, his voice a low gravel. "Mine."

He pressed a hard kiss to my temple.

He drove the Maybach to Fengyu Pavilion, the exclusive club owned by our joint syndicate.

We walked through the opulent doors, his hand resting on the small of my back. The club patrons-a mix of capos and politicians-parted like the sea, bowing their heads.

We approached our private booth, but before we could enter, a high-pitched laugh spilled out from behind the velvet curtains.

My expression turned to stone.

I seamlessly dropped my hand from Zeno's arm, stepping away as Zeno pulled back the curtain.

Liana was sitting at our private table, a glass of champagne in her hand. She wore a simple white dress, looking out of place in the dark atmosphere of the club.

Zeno cleared his throat, his jaw tightening as he stepped between me and the table.

"She was collecting medication for Nonna Rosa from a supplier here," he explained, his tone defensive. "It was not safe for her to wait in the main lounge. She is under The Family's protection."

I did not look at him. I looked at the Associate.

"Get out."

My voice was quiet, carrying the undeniable authority of a Donna.

Liana's smile vanished. Her eyes darted to Zeno, filling with terror.

Zeno shifted his weight.

"Bianca, she is having a meal before the driver takes her back."

I stepped closer to the table, my red dress catching the dim light.

"You earn a lucrative salary managing the fronts of my family's business," I said, my words precise. "Yet you cannot afford your own dinner?"

I tilted my head, mocking her posture.

"If you are that desperate, I can sever a hundred thousand dollars from the syndicate's petty cash and write you a personal check. To pay you to stop begging at my husband's table."

Liana let out a loud sob. She covered her face, her shoulders shaking.

Zeno grabbed my elbow, his grip tight.

"That is enough," he warned. "Your hostility is unprovoked. She is doing a service for my grandmother."

I ripped my arm from his grasp.

"I am enforcing the blood pact," I hissed. "No outsider sits at the Don's table."

Liana stood abruptly, her chair scraping the floor. She bowed her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I may be lower class, Mrs. Falcone," she whimpered. "I may not have your billions. But I will not bow to your tyranny. I have my dignity."

I scoffed, the sound sharp in the booth.

"You think this is a melodrama," I stated coldly. "The Falcone-Rossi marriage is the bedrock of a financial enterprise that holds the lives of thousands of soldiers. This is not a charity for civilians. Know your place."

Humiliated, Liana turned to flee the booth.

Zeno's instincts kicked in. He reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her before forcing her gently but firmly back into her seat.

"Sit down," he commanded. "You do not run from my table."

He looked at me, realizing he was pushing me toward a dangerous edge. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out his burner phone, offering a silent compromise.

"Take her to the adjacent private room," he ordered his men. "Bring her whatever she wants."

Two soldiers appeared and escorted a weeping Liana away.

Zeno sat, pouring himself a whiskey, while I remained standing.

"We bear the weight of two families, Zeno," I reminded him. "Our union is about power. Personal feelings for pawns have no place in it."

Zeno swallowed the amber liquid. He set the glass down, his dark eyes meeting mine.

"It will not happen again."

I looked down at the man I had tied my life to.

"Three strikes," I warned him softly. I touched my second ring—the Falcone signet—and twisted it loose. Not off. Just... ready. "Cross the line again, and this alliance is dead."

I turned and walked out. But not home. I went straight to my intelligence chief's car.

"Liana Romano," I said. "Bank records. Phone logs. Everyone she's met in the last six months. I want her secrets before sunrise."

He nodded. No questions. That's the difference between my men and his.