Stella POV

Preston kept his word. In three days, my father's money-laundering fronts were stabilized. The Syndicate's protection was reinstated, and the penalty was wiped clean.

Preston sent me messages every morning and every night. I did not reply to a single one.

When he showed up at my apartment, I left the door locked. He used his spare key to let himself inside. While he stood in my kitchen cooking dinner as if he belonged there, I locked myself in my bedroom. I did not eat a single bite of his food, and when the clock struck ten, I told him to leave through the wood of the closed door.

I refused to let him near my bed. He accepted the boundary without a fight, playing the role of the patient, understanding Don.

On the fourth day, my phone started vibrating against the kitchen counter.

It was a relentless stream of notifications: hostile messages, friend requests from burner accounts, and direct messages filled with graphic threats.

I opened my social media apps, and a cold sickness coiled in my stomach.

A coordinated leak was spreading like wildfire across high-society pages and underground Syndicate channels.

There was a photo of me walking out of my apartment building, my face circled in red.

The caption read: "The treacherous goomah trying to usurp a Mafia Princess with a bastard child."

I scrolled through the comments. There were thousands of them.

"She seduced a married Capo."

"She got knocked up on purpose to force a blood feud."

"That apartment she lives in? Bought with Serena's family money. What a parasite."

"I hope the Syndicate handles her. A bullet to the stomach should fix the problem."

My thumb kept slipping on the glass screen as I tried to scroll past the death threats. They were not just targeting me. Someone had doxxed the physical addresses of my father's legitimate laundromats, labeling them as corrupt fronts stealing from the community.

A wave of nausea sent me running to the bathroom, where I threw up my breakfast into the toilet.

Wiping my mouth with a hand that refused to stay still, I stared at my pale reflection in the mirror.

Preston had not done this. He wanted me hidden and safe.

This was Serena. The flawless, untouchable socialite. She was leveraging her status as a Mafia Princess to brand me a liability. She wanted the mob to force me into exile.

I walked back into the living room and snatched my phone.

I opened my encrypted photo vault. I scrolled past the recent darkness, reaching deep into eight years of history.

I found the timestamped folders: birthdays, anniversaries, our trip to the coast in 2016, and my college graduation in 2017.

We had been together for eight years. We were together long before his arranged marriage.

I selected nine irrefutable photos—shots of us kissing, holding hands, and celebrating holidays with my parents. Every single one had the date and location stamped clearly at the bottom.

Bypassing the Syndicate rule of Omertà, I opened my public profile.

I uploaded the nine photos.

I typed out a single caption: "Who is the real interloper? See for yourselves."

I hit publish. Tossing the phone onto the couch, I walked into the kitchen to pour a glass of water.

When I checked the screen the next morning, the post had detonated.

The narrative had shifted. Informants and rival factions had dug up Serena's post from earlier that week, flaunting her mafia wedding ring, and placed it side-by-side with my photos from 2016.

The mob respected loyalty. They despised a liar. The public judgment turned instantly against the Princess.

The hashtag SerenaTheRealIntruder was trending across their encrypted networks.

My phone rang. It was my mother.

"Stella, I am so sorry I ever doubted you," she cried.

"It's okay, Mom."

"Someone sent anonymous flower arrangements to your father's business this morning. Huge bouquets of white roses. Your father says it's a sign of respect from the families who hate Serena's bloodline. We are going to be okay."

I hung up the phone, a single tear making a cold track down my cheek.

I had won the battle today.

But somewhere in the city, I knew Preston was already choosing the knife. The only question was where he would aim it—and how deep.