I elevated my husband, Julian, from a low-level mafia soldier to a powerful Underboss. I gave him money, power, and prestige, thinking I had found a loyal king to stand beside me.

But I stumbled upon an anonymous underworld forum where a civilian woman was bragging about her three-year affair with him. She posted pictures of the bite marks he left on her and boasted about the luxury penthouse he bought her.

When I slapped the divorce papers in front of him, he didn't apologize. Instead, he moved her into a safehouse right across the street, reassigned my personal guards to protect her, and allowed her to throw scalding soup in my face. Worse, he orchestrated a massive smear campaign against me. He coerced my own men to frame me for extortion, demanding I step down so his pregnant mistress could take my place.

"You are simply too dominant, darling. A man must do what is necessary to protect his new family."

He chuckled over the phone, threatening to ruin my family's operations if I didn't publicly kneel and apologize to her. He truly thought my love made me weak, using the very empire I built to cage me.

But he forgot one crucial detail. Before I was his wife, I was the sole heir to the Falcone syndicate.

I picked up my secure line to freeze every single one of his assets. It was time to show him what a real Vendetta looked like.

Chapter 1

Serena POV

The discrepancy was a minor one, a ghost ledger for a shell corporation I did not recognize, buried deep within the syndicate's front office accounts. Curiosity, a dangerous indulgence, compelled me to trace the digital thread through a labyrinth of encrypted links, until I arrived at its source: an anonymous forum, pulsing with the sordid chatter of the underworld.

One user dominated the feed, her entries a vulgar chronicle of an affair with a man of rank. As I absorbed the calculated details of her campaign of sabotage, a knot of ice began to form in my stomach—the man whose downfall she was engineering was my husband.

The anonymous user went by the handle "When Will She Find Out." Her posts were a desperate cry for attention.

She bragged about posing as a server to spill red wine on his lap at a formal syndicate dinner, all for the pretext to touch him. She wrote about dressing up as a courier to deliver illicit goods to the threshold of his private suite.

She even detailed a time she pretended to mistake him for someone else on the street, merely to feel the pressure of his fingers interlocked with hers in public.

Her earliest posts dated back nearly three years—timestamps I cross-referenced against my own calendar with growing nausea. She had been with him almost since the beginning of our marriage.

She complained that her patron refused to give her official status. His words, as she reported them, were that he would only leave his wife if the wife found out first.

She wrote about how his soldiers drag her back to his safehouse every time she throws a tantrum and tries to run away.

I stare at the screen, the monitor's pale light swimming in the reflection of my pupils. The blue light from the screen stung my eyes dry, and the mouse wheel clicked hollowly under my fingertip, like a ticking countdown device.

Julian is an Underboss. He is a man who climbed over a mountain of cooling bodies to seize his title. He is known for his ruthless efficiency and his terrifying presence.

His very stillness commanded a dreadful respect from the most hardened criminals in this city. He is not a man who tolerates mistakes.

The wine spill happened two weeks ago. The courier incident was last month. The hand-holding happened three days ago, while I was walking at his side.

Which meant he had looked me in the eyes that night, kissed my forehead, and whispered that I was his queen—all while her touch still lingered on his skin.

The screen's cursor pulsed three times in the message field. My thumb hovered over the send icon, the joint whitening with the force of my restraint. I closed my eyes; the memory of the wine splashing across his trousers, the sensation of his kiss on my forehead the night before—they were like two opposing magnets, repelling each other violently inside my skull.

Finally, my finger descended.

"The divorce papers. When are we signing them?"

Twenty-one minutes after the message was sent, the corridor outside my office echoed with the hurried, slapping sound of leather soles on marble. Then the heavy oak door, which required two hands to be opened with any grace, was thrown against the wall with such force that a fine dust shook loose from the frame and settled on the carpet.

Julian storms into the room. He had clearly abandoned a high-stakes sit-down with a rival family. His tailored suit jacket is unbuttoned, and his chest heaves. His dark eyes are wide with a frantic, almost feral energy.

He crosses the room in three long strides and slams his hands down on my desk.

"What is the meaning of this, Serena?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

I look up at him, my expression a carefully arranged mask of stillness. "Who is she?" I asked.

He vehemently denies everything. He swears on his life, invoking the blood oath of loyalty he swore to me on our wedding day.

"It is a frame," he insisted. "Someone wishes to drive a wedge between us, to weaken the family."

I know his counter-surveillance skills are unmatched. I hold out my hand for his telephones.

A flicker of insult crossed his features, followed by a harsh exhalation of breath. But he reaches into his pockets and pulls out his primary phone and his burner device.

He unlocks both of them. The passwords are my birthday, and the biometric lock yielded to my fingerprint. He places them in my palm.

I spend the next hour scouring the encrypted drives. I check the hidden folders. I check the deleted message logs. I trace the location history.

There was nothing.

Julian walks around the desk to kneel beside my chair. He reaches up and cups my face in his large, warm hands.

His thumbs gently stroke my cheekbones. He plays the wounded husband perfectly, his gaze searching mine as he begged me not to doubt his loyalty.

"You are my queen," he whispered. "I would burn down every building on this street before I betrayed you."

I look at his handsome face, nod once, slowly, and hand the phones back to him.

He kisses my forehead and tells me he has to leave to oversee a late-night weapons shipment. He promises to bring back my favorite food from a diner on the other side of town.

I sit alone in my office as the sun goes down, and I refresh the encrypted forum.

The user has updated her page. She changed her handle to "The Canary's Ascension."

She posted a new photo: a close-up of a woman's collarbone. There are fresh, dark bite marks scattered across the pale skin.

The caption read: "The boss punished me for being careless, but he tasted so good."

Two hours later, Julian walks through my office doors, holding a paper bag from the late-night diner. He is impeccably dressed.

His hair is perfectly styled. He leans down to kiss my cheek, and I smelled expensive cologne and fresh night air.

Mixed within the scent of his expensive cologne was a cloying sweetness of cheap cherry lip gloss that did not belong to me.

I look at the man I elevated to power, and I realize just how terrifyingly skilled his deception has become.

He thinks he has won this round. He thinks I have been pacified.

But he has forgotten one crucial detail. Before I was his wife, I was the sole heir to the Falcone syndicate.

And a Falcone never forgives. A Falcone only corrects.

Serena POV

The following afternoon, Julian and I were seated at an exclusive restaurant owned by my family. The crystal chandeliers overhead cast a warm, opulent glow over the pristine white tablecloths.

A young woman approached our table. She is holding a large bouquet of ostentatiously expensive flowers.

I recognize her face immediately from the blurry background reflections in her cloying forum posts. Her name is Chloe.

Julian froze, his steak knife halting so abruptly that its blade scraped harshly against the fine porcelain plate. A flicker of raw panic flashed in his dark eyes. His jaw clenches tight.

A sudden, violent surge of acid rose in my throat, bringing with it the coppery taste of blood. I had to press my fingernails into my palm to still the tremor in my fingertips. I place my fork down. I did not move my lips, but the muscles in my jaw tightened, and the faint sound of my teeth grinding was lost in the restaurant's soft music. I introduce myself as Julian's sister.

"Cease this game," Julian barks at me. His voice is sharp and commanding. He turns to Chloe and orders her, "Leave. Now."

Chloe does not move. She stands there, her knuckles white around the stems of the flowers. She puts on a pathetic, deeply victimized expression, her wide eyes darting between Julian and me.

I indicated the empty chair beside me. I gestured for her to sit. "Please," I said, my tone laced with a false, saccharine sweetness. "I should very much like to hear your tale."

A plate was overturned, and in the sharp sound of shattering porcelain, he reflexively thrust the woman away. His throat worked, his larynx bobbing as he tried to force a sound from his constricted lungs, but the air seemed to have solidified.

Chloe sees me acknowledging her, and a sudden, reckless burst of confidence animates her features. She steps closer and boldly clings to Julian's shoulder. She whines loudly, pouting, "Julian, baby, when are you going to finalize the split with your terrifying wife?"

My entire body went numb, a cold stillness spreading through my veins.

I held his gaze as I reached into my designer handbag. I pulled out a thick, heavy stack of papers. They are the pre-prepared severance and asset-relinquishment documents. I slapped them flat on the table right in front of him.

Julian stared down at the papers. The color drains completely from his face, leaving it ashen.

He panics. He violently shoves Chloe away from him. He lunges across the table and desperately grabs both of my hands. He stammers, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to form a sentence to explain away the living, breathing reality standing right next to him.

Chloe stumbles backward from the force of his shove. She collided with an empty table. She looks at him in pure, unadulterated shock. Thick tears well up in her eyes. She turns around and flees the restaurant, sobbing loudly.

Julian looks at me. He looks at the door. In a single motion, he breaks every single rule of mafia protocol. He abandons his lawful wife at a highly public table. He ran out of the restaurant after his mistress.

Later that evening, I am sitting in the quiet of the back of my armored car. I check the forum. Chloe's account had a new update. She smugly boasts that she successfully confronted the wife and secured her Don, and was moving into the secret love nest he had purchased and furnished months in advance just for her.

My driver pulled the vehicle smoothly up to my private estate.

I step out of the car. I paused and look across the street. My own personal syndicate soldiers are dutifully carrying matching sets of luxury luggage into the opulent penthouse building directly opposite my front gates.

My jaw tightened. I walk across the street. I enter the penthouse lobby and take the private elevator up to the top floor.

The brass doors slid open. Chloe is standing in the center of the sprawling living room wearing a designer silk robe. She looks at me with a sickeningly smug, triumphant smile.

"I am pregnant with Julian's child," she announced without preamble. She sauntered forward, gesturing to the lavish space. "Julian bought me this penthouse." She points a manicured finger to the armed guards at the door and tells me, "He reassigned your personal staff to protect me." She crosses her arms and proudly reveals, "We have been sleeping together for three years."

The kitchen door swung open. Julian walked out. He is holding a glass of iced water. He saw me, but instead of pulling away, he walked over to Chloe and gently places his hand on her waist to support her.

I stared at his hand, then slowly dragged my gaze up to his face. "A child?" I asked, my voice a deadly, quiet whisper. I coldly remind him of the invasive, highly complex medical procedure he underwent five years ago. He did it to ensure that no illegitimate heirs would ever threaten the Falcone bloodline.

Julian stiffens rigidly. He cannot meet my eyes. He looks at the polished hardwood floor and admits, "I had the procedure reversed a year ago. For Chloe."

The words landed like a physical blow. A year ago. He had been planning this for a full year—lying beside me every night, accepting my trust, my money, my power—all while secretly ensuring he could father a child with another woman.

The heavy front door of the penthouse clicked open. Julian's mother bustled in. She is carefully carrying a large, insulated thermos of traditional restorative soup. She immediately sees Chloe and beams with radiant joy at the prospect of at last having a grandson.

Then she turns and locks eyes with me. Her warm smile vanished, her expression hardening into a mask of silent, stubborn defiance against my authority.

I looked at the three of them—the husband who had betrayed me, the mistress who had mocked me, the mother-in-law who had known and approved—and something inside me clicked into place.

The game was over. Now, the war would begin.

Serena POV

I regarded my mother-in-law, my lips forming a chillingly polite smile.

She awkwardly shifts the thermos in her hands, her eyes darting away as she tried to justify Julian's betrayal. "Men make mistakes," she tells me, her voice trembling slightly. "The unborn child is a blessing, and we have to think about the continuation of the family line."

I cut her off, my voice flat and devoid of any warmth. "The thing growing inside that woman is an illegitimate bastard," I tell her. "The Commission will never recognize a child born from a civilian whore."

Chloe's face turns bright red. "Do not dare insult my baby!" she screams at me.

She snatches the open thermos of hot soup from the older woman's hands and hurls the scalding liquid straight at my face.

I turn my head quickly, and the hot soup splashes across my shoulder, instantly soaking my pristine white suit.

My eyes darken. The high-ceilinged room seemed to swallow all sound, leaving only the sharp echo of the slap and the ragged rasp of breathing.

I step directly into Chloe's personal space. My hand closed around a handful of her expensive hair. I pulled her head back and deliver a brutal, ringing slap across her cheek. The sound echoed sharply against the high ceilings.

Julian lunges forward. He wrapped his arms around Chloe and pulled her away from me. He shields her body with his own, his eyes wide as he whispered a pathetic plea. "Please do not hurt her," he asks me. "She is fragile."

I stand there and stare at the man who once swore to burn every building on this street to keep me safe, observing his protective posture over another woman.

I let out a short, mocking scoff. I turned on my heel and walked out of the penthouse.

I returned to my estate and locked myself inside my private study. I look at the framed wedding photos on my desk, the glass reflecting the dark, spreading stain on my suit.

I realize Julian is no different from the corrupt, greedy men my father always warned me about. He used my power to build his throne, only to install a peasant to share it.

I wipe the single tear that falls down my cheek. I opened my laptop and begin preparing for war.

The next morning, my driver takes me to the syndicate's corporate headquarters. As I walk toward the main entrance, a line of unfamiliar soldiers steps in front of the glass doors and blocked my path.

The lead guard looks at the ground and tells me, "Serena Falcone is barred from entry."

Chloe steps out from behind the line of guards. She wore a tailored dress that cheaply mimics my style. "Julian authorized the guard change this morning," she gloats.

She points to the concrete floor and demands, "Kneel and apologize to me if you want to enter your own building."

We stand in a tense standoff.

Julian rushes out of the private elevator. He took in the scene, and immediately ordered the guards to stand down. He then scolded Chloe for coming down to the lobby.

I bypass all of them and walk straight into my corner office.

Julian follows me inside and closes the door. He walked over to my desk and hands me a stack of transition documents. "You need to hand over your daily operations to me," he tells me.

"I need to take full control of the operations to ensure family stability," he claims. "I will appoint my own trusted capos to manage your sectors. I suggest you step down until the baby is born to avoid any unnecessary stress on our marriage."

I sit in my leather chair and look at him. "Do you recall the exact quantity of laundered capital and Commission influence I bring to your faction?" I mockingly ask him.

He stays completely silent, aware he is nothing without my backing.

I pull a pen from my holder and agree to step down. I sign the transition papers and push them across the desk. "When are we finalizing the divorce?" I ask him again.

He frantically shakes his head. He refused. "We took a blood oath," he claims. "We are bound for life."

I stand up and walk out of the office.

Chloe is waiting in the hallway, holding a cup of coffee. As I walk past her, she intentionally tilts her cup. The scalding black liquid drenched my pristine suit sleeve.

She puts her hand over her mouth and fakes a gasping apology. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"

I shake my head. Without a word, I reach out and grab her hair with my left hand. With my right foot, I kick hard against the back of her knees.

Her legs buckle instantly. She crashes down and is forced to kneel humiliatingly on the cold marble floor in front of me.

"Now, we are even," I whisper down at her.

But as I release her hair and walk toward the elevator, my mind is already elsewhere. Julian thinks I have surrendered by signing those papers. He thinks he is winning.

He does not realize that every signature, every concession, every humiliation I endured today—I was counting them. Cataloguing them.

And soon, I would collect the debt. With interest.