“Counselor, draft the dissolution papers. I’m severing both the marriage and my position in the Romano family business.”

The attorney’s hand froze over the notepad, his sharp eyes narrowing.

“Serena… you realize what you’re saying? Walking away from the Romano syndicate isn’t like quitting some office job. And your marriage to Luca—your father bled for that alliance. Do you really want to throw it away?”

Serena Caruso had been Luca Romano’s underboss on paper for three years—and secretly, his wife just as long.

A month ago, she had been ambushed on her way back from inspecting a warehouse along the docks. Masked men shoved her into a van, guns cold against her ribs. For hours they beat her and demanded ransom after ransom from her husband.

But Luca never answered a single call.

By the time her captors grew bored and dumped her into the freezing harbor, she thought she had taken her last breath. The salt water burned her lungs, the weight of her coat dragging her under. If not for a passing fisherman with a weathered boat and a kind heart, she would have joined the hundreds of bodies already claimed by those waters.

That same night, Luca was seen leaving a hotel—with her cousin Isabella, the family’s golden girl, draped on his arm like she was already his wife.

Everything Serena had once clung to—childhood devotion, her blind loyalty, years of careful silence—shattered like glass under a boot heel.

“I’m finished pretending,” Serena told the lawyer, her voice steady as stone. “And Luca won’t stop me.”

She had known, deep down, all along: not once had her husband looked at her with love.

But she had loved him since she was a girl running barefoot across her father’s courtyard. When he finally agreed to marry her three years ago, she thought she had won the world.

Now their third anniversary was approaching.

And she had chosen one last gift for him—her departure. Her freedom.

---

That evening, Serena returned to the Romano estate. The old villa rose from the cliffs like a fortress, its stone walls stained dark by decades of blood feuds and gunfire. The scent of garlic and olive oil drifted from the kitchen, clashing with the usual tang of gun oil and cigar smoke.

Luca Romano stood at the stove, sleeves rolled, apron tied—an image almost laughable for a man who commanded soldiers and executions with a nod.

He had always despised cooking. She remembered their first year of marriage: she had attempted a plate of lasagna, and he had walked in wrinkling his nose, muttering, “This kitchen smells like a graveyard.”

But when Isabella mentioned once that she liked homecooked meals, Luca had quietly hired a chef to teach him. For her.

Now, he set steaming dishes on the long mahogany table with practiced ease.

“You said today’s sit-down with the dockworkers’ union was light. Why so late coming home?”

Even under soft kitchen light, his tall frame radiated power, his dark eyes calculating, every movement dripping with the arrogance of a man used to obedience.

Serena smoothed her face into calm. “Had to train a few new recruits. Fresh blood needs discipline.”

He didn’t question it. To him, she was always buried in logistics and work.

“Alright. Dinner’s ready. Sit.”

She obeyed, her movements fluid, deliberate. He placed a slice of charred eggplant onto her plate.

“I remember you liked this. Made it just for you.”

A dull ache tightened in her chest.

It wasn’t her who loved eggplant. It was Isabella.

Three years of marriage, and he hadn’t noticed the allergy that sent Serena’s throat closing.

If he’d ever truly paid attention, he would have known.

Luca noticed her hesitation. “Seri? Why aren’t you eating?”

Instead of answering, she reached into her bag, withdrew two crisp documents, and slid them across the table.

“Dinner can wait. Sign these.”

Luca’s brow furrowed. He hated business talk at meals. “What contracts can’t wait until morning?”

Before he could take them, his phone buzzed.

He moved quickly, covering the screen—but not before Serena saw the caller ID.

Isabella.

He rose, answering the call with barely concealed eagerness, pacing out onto the balcony. His sudden movement knocked over a wineglass, crimson liquid spilling across the table like blood.

A shard of glass flew up, slicing Serena’s finger. Blood welled, dark and silent, dripping onto the cold marble tile.

Luca didn’t notice. He spent fifteen minutes murmuring into the phone before shrugging into his coat.

“I’ve got business tonight. Don’t wait up.”

Serena’s voice stopped him cold. “You haven’t signed the agreements.”

He sighed, annoyance flickering. He thought she was nitpicking. With careless flourish, he scrawled his signature across both pages.

“There. Satisfied? Can I leave now?”

She stared at his name on the divorce papers, then at the resignation from the Romano empire. Her chest was hollow. “Yes. Go.”

As if every second in her presence was poison, Luca strode out without another word.

Watching him go, Serena let out a low, bitter laugh.

If he cared at all, he would have noticed the blood dripping from her hand.

If he cared, he would have read what he had just signed.

But Luca had always loved Isabella—her cousin, the family’s jewel.

Serena was only ever a placeholder, a pawn.

Now, with her hundredth disappointment carved into her bones, she opened her leather-bound notebook, slid the two signed papers inside, and locked them in the safe.

That would be her anniversary gift.

Then, with shaking hands, she picked up her phone and dialed a number she hadn’t called in three years.

The line connected immediately.

“Serena,” the voice came low and sharp, carrying the weight of a man feared across the continent. “Are you finally ready for me to take you away?”

Serena thought it would take a while for someone like Dante Bianchi to answer.

Little did she know, the line had already connected at the first ring.

“Serena,” his voice came sharp and low, steel wrapped in velvet. “You’re not playing with me, are you?”

She stayed silent, her breath caught in her throat.

“I’ve been chasing you for as long as you’ve been crawling after Luca Romano. Seven years—seven wasted years—while you froze me out like ice. And now, suddenly, you bend? What the hell changed?”

Dante Bianchi. Head of the Bianchi syndicate. Her almost-choice.

He had chased her with ruthless patience for seven years. In truth, she nearly gave in.

But on the night she was supposed to decide, Luca whispered promises that never came true. And she left Dante behind.

Now, faced with his questions, Serena took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Forget I called.”

A crash thundered through the receiver—glass or maybe a chair hitting the wall. Her pulse spiked.

“You think I’m a fool you can pick up when you’re lonely and toss aside when you’re not? Huh, Serena?” His voice roared, full of fury. “No. You chose me this time. You don’t get to run again.”

She bit her lip. “Dante—”

“One month,” he cut her off, voice like a loaded gun. “Deal with that bastard husband. After that, I’m coming for you. And when I do, you won’t escape me.”

The line went dead.

A small, wry smile tugged at her lips. He hasn’t changed, she realized. Not in anger, not in desire.

That night, Luca never came home.

She spent the hours in silence, sorting through closets and drawers, folding her life into boxes. By dawn, pale light spilled across the marble floors when the front door finally opened.

Luca stepped inside, still in yesterday’s clothes, reeking faintly of perfume that wasn’t hers.

“What are you throwing out?”

Serena flinched—barely—but straightened, tucking hair behind her ear. “Just some garbage.”

He walked over, glanced inside the box. Silk dresses, jewels, and cufflinks he had tossed at her like bribes.

“You call these… garbage?”

“Old gifts. Old clothes,” she said lightly. “They take up space. I thought I’d donate them under your name—the orphans on the hill could use them. Might even buy you some goodwill.”

At that, his lips curved faintly. “Always thinking ahead.”

But she knew better. He hadn’t believed her excuse; he simply didn’t care enough to dig deeper.

Suddenly, the sound of shattering glass cracked the air.

Serena spun around.

Isabella stood near the shelf, wide-eyed, a Venetian glass vase in shards at her feet. Her expression was pure innocence, the kind that deceived even devils.

“Oops… sorry, Luca, Serena. I didn’t mean to.”

Luca didn’t glance at Serena. He rushed straight to Isabella, brushing past his wife as if she were invisible. His hands hovered over Isabella’s arms, checking for cuts.

“Are you hurt?” His voice softened, stripped of its usual edge.

Seeing no injury, he sighed in relief. “It’s fine. Nothing matters more than you.”

But Isabella wasn’t finished. Her eyes slid toward Serena, coy, testing. “You don’t mind, do you, cousin?”

Serena’s gaze dropped to the shards on the floor.

That vase had been one of a kind—commissioned after their trip to Venice, the only piece etched with both her and Luca’s initials entwined. Now, it was rubble.

Once, she might have cried, demanded justice.

Now, she only lifted her chin and said evenly, “It’s fine.”

A flicker passed across Isabella’s face before she smiled sweetly. “You’re always so generous.” Then, turning back to Luca: “With a cousin like that, I’m sure she won’t mind if I ask one more thing.”

He didn’t even look at Serena when he spoke.

“Isabella’s just back from Florence. The Caruso house is empty, and she hates staying alone. She’ll live here for now. Your room faces the sun. She’s always been sensitive to the cold. Move your things.”

Serena had long stopped expecting to share a bed with her husband.

Luca’s excuse was always the same—he couldn’t sleep with anyone beside him.

But she knew better. He just couldn’t sleep beside her.

When he told her to give Isabella her room, she didn’t argue. That alone seemed to throw him. He had probably prepared some slick justification, but she cut it short.

“Fine,” she said, her tone almost careless. “I’ll move my things out tonight.”

For a moment, his eyes flickered—something like hesitation—but Isabella slid her arm through his and cooed, “See? She understands.”

Serena turned away without answering. She crouched and wrapped her arms around a wooden crate packed with clothes and books, heavier than she should have attempted alone. Her heel slipped against the polished stone, and the corner of the crate smashed against her hand. The bones in her knuckles screamed. She collapsed to her knees, breath catching, pain radiating sharp and hot up her arm.

Neither Luca nor Isabella noticed. He was already listening to her chatter about her trip abroad, smiling faintly as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

Serena stayed crouched on the floor, her injured hand trembling against the weight, her lashes wet. It wasn’t the first time she had bled in silence, and it wouldn’t be the last.

By sunset, the halls of the villa were stripped of her. She had sent box after box out with the staff until nothing remained but bare furniture.

“You didn’t need to clear so much,” Luca remarked as he adjusted his cufflinks. “Isabella’s not staying forever. When she leaves, you’ll move back in. Why waste the effort?”

“They were old things,” Serena replied smoothly. “Dead weight. Better to clear them out.”

“You’ve never thrown anything away before.”

She only smiled faintly. “Sometimes you burn the old, so something new has room to grow.”

It was the truth, but not one he could ever understand.

Luca didn’t press. Instead, he changed the subject with a snap of finality. “There’s an auction tonight. Important faces will be there. You’ll come. Isabella, too.”

---

The auction house sat like a palace on the riverfront, guarded by black-suited men with guns under their jackets. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light over rows of velvet chairs. The air was rich with money and danger—politicians, bankers, dons, all gathered under one roof, trading both art and influence.

The host, a slick-tongued broker with too-bright eyes, hurried to greet them. “Mr. Romano, what an honor. Your seat is ready.”

He gestured toward a pair of chairs near the front. “And of course, a second seat—for your wife?”

The words fell like a blade.

Serena stood a step behind Luca, watching. Two women. One chair. His choice.

It wasn’t a surprise when his hand closed around Isabella’s. “This is Isabella Caruso. Don Caruso’s daughter.”

Recognition lit in the host’s eyes. “The Caruso princess. An honor.”

“And her?” the man asked, glancing toward Serena.

Luca’s expression didn’t flicker. “My operations officer. Handles logistics.”

The words were clean, precise—erasing her role as his wife without hesitation.

Serena felt the sting cut through her ribs, but her face remained calm, unreadable. She stood tall behind them, nothing more than a shadow.

They took their seats, gleaming under the light. She stayed behind, an ornament no one acknowledged.

The hall was too bright, too suffocating. A sudden spasm of pain tore through her abdomen, sharp and merciless. She pressed a hand against her side, her steps quickening as she slipped out toward the restroom—her chest heaving as though she were fleeing.