On the morning of our Blood-Bound Union, the entire Valente compound hummed with a restless, electric energy. The household staff had been up since before dawn, draping the private chapel in ivory silk and blood-red roses. The caterers moved through the kitchens like a second army. Even the soldiers posted along the perimeter walls seemed to stand a little straighter, their dark suits freshly pressed, their expressions carrying something almost resembling warmth.

And me? I had been dreaming of this day for a year. Twelve months of fittings and planning, of rehearsing my vows in the mirror of the bedroom I shared with the most powerful man in New York. Twelve months of telling myself that this ceremony would finally make it real, that the sacred betrothal our fathers had arranged when I was still a girl would be sealed in blood and gold before God and the Family.

But four hours before I was meant to walk down the aisle, Dominic Valente canceled everything.

The reason? Chiara. His precious ward. That porcelain-faced, doe-eyed orphan with her soft voice and her fragile little hands, who had supposedly injured herself during a routine self-defense session in the compound's training gym.

The news didn't even come from him. I found out through the Family's private group chat, the encrypted thread that connected every member of the household, where Chiara's story spread like gasoline on marble.

"I'm so sorry, everyone, but I don't think I'll be able to make it to the ceremony. I hurt my leg badly during training today. Don Valente is with me, making sure I'm all right."

Chiara flooded the chat with photographs, each one more carefully staged than the last. Her ankle wrapped in gauze. Her face arranged into a mask of brave suffering. And the final image, the one that drove the blade between my ribs: Chiara lying on a medical stretcher in the compound's private infirmary, while Dominic stood over her, his jaw tight, his dark eyes clouded with concern. His hand rested on the rail of the stretcher as though she might shatter if he looked away.

I gripped my phone so hard the screen protector cracked beneath my thumb. This had to be a joke. Some cruel, elaborate test. That look of concern on his face, that protective stance, the way he leaned toward her as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. That was supposed to be for me. He was supposed to be standing at the altar in three hours, not hovering over Chiara Mancuso like she was the only person in his empire who mattered.

He couldn't cancel the ceremony we had planned for an entire year. Not for this. Not for Chiara faking a sprained ankle.

My blood ran hot. My reflection stared back at me from the vanity mirror across the room, still wearing the silk robe the stylist had laid out for me, my hair half-pinned in an elaborate updo that no one would ever see. The rage was a living thing inside my chest, coiling tighter with every second, because the voice in the back of my skull would not stop whispering what I already knew.

You can't win against her. You have never been able to win against her. You are always second.

My phone vibrated against my palm. A private message. From Dominic.

"Neve, something's come up. Chiara's hurt. I can't go through with the ceremony right now. We'll have to reschedule. Don't wait up for me."

I stared at the screen until the words blurred. My chest constricted, a slow, crushing pressure that had nothing to do with the corset the seamstress had fitted that morning and everything to do with the man I had given five years of my life to.

He hadn't even called. Hadn't had the rispetto to let me hear his voice, to offer an explanation, an apology, anything that might have softened the blow. He had typed out a message the way a man might cancel a dinner reservation. Brief. Dismissive. As if the most important day of my life was an inconvenience he could pencil in for a later date.

Five years. Five years of loyalty. Five years of standing beside him at sit-downs and Sunday dinners, of pressing my lips shut when the whispers followed me through the halls of the compound. She's not good enough for a Valente. She's just a Serafini girl. Her father was a soldier, not a boss. What does the Don see in her? Five years of being his rock, his confidante, the woman who waited up for him on the nights he came home smelling of gunpowder and rain, who never asked questions she knew he couldn't answer. Five years of Omertà kept not out of obligation but out of love.

And now, this.

I did not respond. What was there to say? My fingers trembled over the screen. I wanted to call him and scream until my throat was raw, to demand he explain why he chose her, again, always her, over the woman he was supposed to bind his blood to. But instead, I swallowed the rage like a mouthful of broken glass and hurled the phone onto the bed.

It bounced once against the duvet and lay still, its screen dark.

I paced. The bedroom was enormous, one of the finest rooms in the Valente compound, with its vaulted ceilings and its windows overlooking the estate's private gardens. Dominic and I had built a life together in these rooms. His suits hung beside my dresses in the walk-in closet. His cologne lingered on the pillows. His reading glasses sat on the nightstand beside a dog-eared copy of The Prince. But lately, this place had begun to feel less like a home and more like a gilded cage. I lived in his shadow, surrounded by his name, his legacy, his obligations, and I was alone almost all the time.

A knock broke through the silence. Three sharp raps, unhesitant, the knock of someone who did not need permission.

I opened the door. Nonna Lolita Valente stood in the hallway, her small frame wrapped in black lace, her silver hair pulled back in a severe chignon. She was eighty-three years old. She had buried two husbands, survived three assassination attempts, and outlasted every enemy who had ever underestimated her. Her face was a map of decades spent navigating the treacherous waters of La Cosa Nostra, and her dark eyes, still sharp as stiletto blades, held a sympathy that nearly undid me.

"I heard what happened, child," she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. She never waited. In the Valente household, Nonna Lolita went where she pleased.

She settled herself into the armchair by the window as though she owned it. Which, in a sense, she did.

"You deserve better than this."

I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted copper. I would not cry. Not yet. But Nonna had always seen through every mask I wore. She was the sharpest person in the Family, sharper than the Consigliere, sharper even than Dominic himself, though she would never say so aloud. There was no hiding pain from a woman who had spent a lifetime reading the faces of killers and liars.

"I thought today would be different." My voice came out smaller than I intended. I sank into the chair across from her, my knees suddenly too weak to hold me. "I thought he'd finally choose me over her."

Nonna's eyes darkened. The sympathy did not leave her face, but something harder settled beneath it. Something cold and knowing.

"Dominic is a fool. He cannot see what he is losing." She paused, her gnarled fingers laced together in her lap. "But I know that Chiara Mancuso is not the innocent little lamb she pretends to be."

I stared at her. My pulse quickened. Everyone in the Family adored Chiara. The sweet orphan. The tragic ward.

The girl who smiled so prettily and spoke so softly and always, always found a reason to be near Dominic. The soldiers doted on her. The household staff cooked her favorite meals without being asked. Even the Consigliere spoke of her with a gentleness he reserved for no one else. She had wrapped the entire Valente empire around her delicate finger.

But Nonna, like me, had never trusted her. Not once. Not from the very first day Chiara had been brought through the compound gates as a frightened twelve-year-old, clutching a rosary and weeping for her dead mother.

"That injury is a fake." Nonna's voice was flat, certain, the voice of a woman stating a fact as plain as the weather. "Convenient timing, wouldn't you say?"

My heart hammered against my ribs. It was not just me. I was not paranoid. I was not the jealous, bitter woman the whispers in the hallways made me out to be.

"You think she did this on purpose?"

Nonna scoffed. The sound was quiet, almost elegant, but it carried the weight of absolute contempt.

"Oh, child. Of course she did. She has been playing this game for years, pulling Dominic closer every chance she gets. Every scraped knee. Every tearful confession. Every little crisis that requires the Don's personal attention. You think she is helpless?" Nonna leaned forward, and her dark eyes burned. "I see right through her. I have seen women like Chiara Mancuso my entire life. They are the most dangerous kind. The kind who smile while they slip the knife between your ribs."

I clenched my fists in my lap. My nails bit into my palms.

"Then how come Dominic doesn't see it?"

"Because that boy has been blinded since the day she arrived. His father's dying oath, the debt of honor to Rosaria Mancuso, it clouds everything. He confuses obligation with affection, and Chiara knows exactly how to keep the confusion alive." Nonna's mouth thinned. "But you know the truth. So you must be strong enough to face it."

I nodded. The motion felt mechanical, hollow. My stomach churned. I did not want to be strong. I wanted Dominic to walk through that door, take my face in his hands, and tell me he was sorry. I wanted him to make it right. I wanted him to choose me.

"I'm sure you'll think of something. I know you are strong and wise, Neve." Nonna rose from the chair with a grace that defied her years. She crossed the room and pulled me into a hug. Her arms were thin but firm, and she smelled of rosewater and old lace. "Do not let this Family break you. You are worth more than they know."

She released me, smoothed the front of her dress, and left without another word. The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence filled the room like floodwater.

My phone vibrated against the duvet, and I flinched. I crossed to the bed and picked it up. A message from Ivo Valente, the Underboss. My childhood friend. The man who had grown up beside Dominic and me, who had stood at Dominic's right hand since the day the old Don was buried.

"Neve, I heard the news. Don't be too disappointed. Dominic had to do this. It's his obligation as the head of the Family. He needs to ensure the safety of everyone under his protection."

"Yeah, right!" The words tore out of me, loud and raw in the empty room. I tossed the phone back onto the bed without typing a reply. Ivo and his endless excuses. Ivo, who always found a way to make Dominic's choices sound reasonable, who always smoothed the edges until the blade didn't look like a blade anymore.

Two minutes later, the group chat buzzed again. I picked up the phone against my better judgment. Chiara had posted more photographs. Dominic sitting at her bedside, spooning broth into her mouth as though she were an invalid. Dominic pressing the back of his hand to her forehead to check her temperature. Dominic adjusting the bandage on her ankle with the careful, focused attention of a man tending to something precious and breakable.

As if she were his wife. As if she were the woman he was supposed to marry today.