The terrace door slid open.

Robin walked in, a perfectly measured look of grief on his face as he wrapped me in his arms. He smelled of another woman's perfume, cheap and cloying.

"Bella, my love," he murmured, stroking my hair. His gentle voice was a fresh wave of nausea. "I know how much you're hurting. Don't be afraid. I'm here. I will always be with you."

I fought back the urge to tear him apart and buried my face in the expensive, tailored suit I had once bought for him.

I let my body tremble, and he mistook the rage for grief.

"Robin," I whispered, lifting my head to look at him with reddened eyes. My voice was broken and dependent. "Don't leave me. Please, don't ever leave me."

If he was this masterful an actor, then I would play my part until the very end.

A flicker of triumphant pity crossed his eyes. "I never will," he promised. "Never."

Late that night, I returned to the family estate, the estate our family had run for a century. I told my brother everything.

My phone buzzed. It was Robin.

"Bella, I got into a little trouble at the club. Got my arm sliced open." His voice was a mix of a whine and entitlement. "Can you come take care of me? Please? Like you used to."

Like I used to?

I suddenly remembered the first time he'd been hurt for me. We were being chased by a rival family, and he threw himself in front of me, taking a bullet meant to kill me. Even as he faded in and out of consciousness, he was whispering my name.

He survived, but the injury left his left hand with permanent nerve damage that required meticulous daily care.

But the naive Isabella who had provided that care was dead. She had died with her papa.

"I'm busy." It was the first time in five years I had ever refused him. In the past, I would have rushed to his side, frantic, ready to clean up any mess he made.

"...What?" He was stunned. "Bella, I'm hurt."

"If you're hurt, go to a hospital," I said. "I'm not a doctor."

I hung up.

The next day, I went back to our penthouse apartment to pack my things. The door was unlocked.

Robin was lying weakly on the bed in the master bedroom, a single, pathetic layer of gauze wrapped around his arm. The moment he saw me, he put on the face of an abandoned puppy.

"Bella, you came. I knew you still cared about me the most."

He grabbed my hand and brought it to his lips.

"Trust me, Bella," he said, his eyes locking with mine in a blazing, false oath of loyalty. "From now on, I won't cause you any more trouble. I will protect you. I'll protect the family. I'll protect what's ours. I will never let anyone hurt you again."

I stared at him, at the ring on his hand that was stained with my papa's blood, and slowly, a smile touched my lips.

"I entrust my everything to you, Robin."

Ping.

My phone screen lit up.

For the first time in a long while, it was a message from Ava.

It was a photo. She was in a silk robe, nestled against a sleeping Robin. Her hand rested on his chest, a triumphant smirk on her face.

The background was our penthouse, the bedroom I had meticulously decorated for him.

Let me show you what a real woman looks like, Isabella.

Unlike the countless times before when I would have flown into a jealous rage, I simply took a screenshot and saved it, my expression blank.

By day six of the countdown, I had it: the damning evidence at the sit-down.

Robin walked out of the bathroom, his hair still damp. "What are you looking at?"

"The proposals from the wedding planner." I quickly switched screens. "He said we need to finalize the guest list."

He nodded, satisfied, and sat down beside me. "Of course. This is our big day. Every detail has to be perfect."

"Yes," I smiled. "Every single detail."

That afternoon, I left the apartment under the pretense of choosing a wedding dress. In reality, I drove straight to the secure room in the basement of the family estate.

Marco's Consigliere, Antonio, was already waiting for me. A thick folder lay on the table.

"Miss Moretti, the list is ready," Antonio said, pushing the file toward me. "Representatives from all the major families will be in attendance. Including the Falcones."

I opened the folder. Next to each name was a detailed profile—their relationship with Moretti family, their level of contact with Robin, and where they would likely stand during the sit-down.

"And security?"

"Arranged. Don Falcone's men will control the perimeter. Our men will handle the interior," Antonio said, pausing for a moment. "Once it begins, no one leaves."

"Good." I closed the folder. "How long?"

Four days.

Four days. Robin had seven more days to live his lie.

When I returned to the apartment, Robin was waiting for me in the living room.

Just like he used to, every night he knew I was coming home.

He was standing by the wall, frowning.

"Isabella, where's our photo?" he asked, pointing to the empty wall. The large portrait of us from our vacation in Italy was gone, leaving only a bare nail.

"I sent it out to be restored," I said lightly. "I want it to look brand new for the wedding."

In truth, I had torn that photo to shreds last night, along with every other picture of us, and thrown them into the incinerator.

Robin let out a breath of relief and wrapped his arms around me from behind. "You think of everything."

He kissed my ear, then pulled a small box from his pocket. "I bought you a little something."

Inside was a rhinestone-studded necklace, gaudy in its design. It was clearly something Ava would like.

"It's beautiful," I said, running a finger over the cheap stones. "Will you put it on for me?"

Robin eagerly took the necklace and moved behind me. As his fingers brushed against the back of my neck, I fought the urge to flinch.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror—a liar's gift wrapped around my throat, a false smile plastered on my face.

Robin then noticed the calendar on my desk, where I'd been marking off the days in red ink. Seven days, six, five…four.

"Are you counting down?" he asked, reaching to flip through it.

"Mhm, for our wedding," I nodded. "Big days deserve a proper countdown."

He had no idea I wasn't marking a wedding, but his doomsday.

Soon, Robin. It will all be over soon.

"Isabella, sometimes I feel like the luckiest man alive," Robin said, taking my hand. "To be able to marry you, to become part of the Moretti family."

"Is that so?" I stroked the back of his hand. "Do you think... my papa would be happy for us?"

Robin's hand tensed for a split second before he recovered.

"Of course. All old Don Moretti ever wanted was your happiness," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "He would know I'd take good care of you."

The hypocritical bastard.

Just then, Robin's phone rang.

"Sorry, some trouble at the casino," he said, standing up. "I have to go take a look."

More "trouble at the casino." I had clearly heard Ava's flirtatious voice on the other end of the line.

As he headed for the door, I pointed to a heavy wooden crate in the corner. "Could you help me move this to the basement? It's some of my papa's old things. I want to get rid of them."

"Of course, darling," he said, walking over without a second thought. He lifted the crate with ease. "Leave the heavy lifting to me. Out with the old, in with the new."

He walked toward the service elevator that led to the basement incinerator, never once asking what was inside.

If he had opened it, he would have found all the evidence needed to seal his fate.

But the fool did nothing.

The elevator doors slid shut, hiding his smug face from view.

He would never know he had just personally carried his own coffin to the furnace.

The gardens of the Moretti estate were lit up, and all the core family members had gathered to celebrate my twenty-third birthday.

The thought that I would never again receive a birthday gift from my papa was a sharp, stabbing pain in my heart.

"Happy birthday, my love."

Robin wrapped his arms around me from behind, kissing my ear.

I leaned back against him, as if he were the only thing holding me up. "When my papa passed, I thought my world would collapse."

My voice trembled with a perfectly calibrated fragility.

"But it didn't," I said, turning to gaze at Robin with the most adoring eyes in the world. "Because I have you."

Robin's chest puffed out, his face a mask of undisguised pride and satisfaction.

"It was you, Robin, who became my light in my darkest hour," I said, placing my free hand over his on my arm. "To my fiancé. My protector. My everything."

I drained my champagne glass.

The great hall erupted in applause. Robin, completely melted by my performance, leaned down and whispered possessively in my ear, "Soon, they'll all be calling me Don Gallo."

The hunger for the Moretti family's wealth and power was practically boiling over in him now, an ambition he could no longer hide in his eyes.

Three days until my revenge.

I simply smiled at him, then turned to my brother, Marco.

"Brother, I feel a little dizzy," I said, pressing my fingers to my temple and swaying slightly.

Marco understood immediately. He steadied me. "My sister needs to rest." He spoke to Robin with a tone that left no room for argument, then guided me through the crowd toward the back of the estate.

We didn't go to a guest room.

We went to my papa's study, through a secret door hidden behind a bookshelf, and into the true heart of the family's power—a soundproof, windowless chamber.

A man was already waiting for us.

Dante Falcone.

Even in the dim light, his silhouette was flawless and dangerous. A black suit, ice-blue eyes, and a face that had captivated countless women.

But it was obvious that, as my future husband by arrangement of our family, I wasn't here to admire him today.

"Don Falcone," I said, closing the door behind us. The frail woman from moments ago was gone, replaced by someone standing ramrod straight. I finally let the smile fall from my face.

"Miss Moretti," he acknowledged with a slight nod, his eyes sweeping over me. "My condolences."

"I'm not here for your condolences," I said, walking directly across from him and taking a seat. "I'm here to make a deal."

Dante raised an eyebrow, a flicker of interest in his eyes. "Oh?"

"Robin Gallo. My 'fiancé'," I said, the word tasting like ash. "He murdered my papa."

Dante's expression didn't change, but he sat up straighter. "A bold accusation. He was your project, wasn't he? You're the one who made him."

"I raised a dog that bites its master," I said coldly. "Now, I'm going to put him down myself."

"And how do you plan to do that?"

"I'm turning my wedding into his execution," I said, my voice calm but laced with venom. "I will try him and sentence him in front of every family. I want everyone to see what happens when you betray the Morettis."

"And for that, Don Falcone, I need your help," I said, looking him directly in the eye.

Don Falcone was silent for a moment, his fingertips tapping lightly on the armrest of his chair. "It sounds entertaining. But why should the Falcone family risk making enemies of half the underworld to help you clean house?"

"In return, every racket under Robin's name—the casinos, the docks, the smuggling routes—our families split it all, fifty-fifty."

A cold smile finally touched Dante's lips. He stood, walked over to me, and extended his hand.

"I've always admired people who believe in an eye for an eye," he said, looking down at me, his gaze filled with the approval of one predator for another. "Especially a woman who collects her own debts. We have a deal."

I reached out and shook his hand.

His palm was warm and strong, a world away from Robin's deceptively gentle touch.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Don Falcone."

Dante raised an imaginary glass. "Then I trust it will be… an unforgettable wedding."