"Camilla, get to the kitchen and start dinner. It's late, and everyone's hungry." Donna Agata's voice cut through the sitting room like a dull blade, more habit than authority behind it.

I didn't spare her a glance. Instead, I turned to Rosalia with a smile so polished it could have graced the cover of a society page. "Rosalia, you and Enzo grew up together in the old neighborhood. I imagine you used to eat here all the time back then?"

"Of course!" Rosalia's voice lilted with practiced sweetness. "Back in those days, Enzo and I had practically every meal together. His mother's cooking, Sunday dinners, all of it."

"So after all those years away, you must really miss Donna Agata's cooking." I let my gaze drift to my mother-in-law, my tone warm as honey poured over a razor. "Mamma, shouldn't you get started on dinner for your guest? She's come such a long way."

I crossed the room, settled into the leather sofa, and reached for the remote. The television hummed to life, filling the silence I'd left behind me. I could feel the temperature in the room shift, the quiet recalibration of everyone's expectations.

It didn't take long. Enzo appeared beside me within minutes, jaw tight, irritation simmering behind his dark eyes. "How could you make my mother cook? You know her health isn't what it used to be." His voice dropped low, meant to sound commanding but landing somewhere closer to petulant. "Get up and handle dinner."

I widened my eyes, letting just the right amount of concern bleed through. "Mamma, you're unwell? Is it serious? Why didn't anyone tell me? We should call Dr. Ferraro immediately."

Donna Agata's face twisted. "Who's unwell? There's nothing wrong with me! Don't you dare try to put a curse on this house with that kind of talk."

"Then why don't you want to cook for Rosalia?" I tilted my head, amusement threading through every syllable. "You don't feel like it?"

The old woman's expression curdled like milk left in the Sicilian sun. Her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. "Who said I wouldn't cook?"

She pushed herself up from her chair and marched toward the kitchen with the stiff pride of a woman who still believed the Mancini name alone could fill a room. For the next two hours, the sounds of clattering pots and sizzling oil drifted through the estate. The smell of garlic and braised meat filled the hallways, and for a moment, the house almost felt like a home that functioned on something other than resentment.

When the table was finally set, Nicoletta took Rosalia by the arm and guided her into my chair at the head of the family side. The girl didn't even look at me as she did it. "Sis, Rosalia is our guest. You don't mind giving up your spot, right?"

Donna Agata materialized beside me, pressing a bowl into my hands the way one might hand scraps to a stray. "If sitting at the edge of the table is uncomfortable for you, why don't you take your plate to the kitchen? You can eat there. And while you're at it, clean up a bit."

I stared at the bowl in my hands. So now I wasn't even permitted at the table. The table I paid for. In the house my family's money kept standing. Eating food bought with tribute from Ferrante-controlled fronts.

I set the bowl down on the counter with a quiet, deliberate click.

"No need. You all enjoy yourselves." My voice was flat, stripped of everything but finality. "A friend invited me out tonight. I'll eat with them."

Enzo's brow furrowed, that familiar crease of irritation forming between his eyes. "We're leaving for the coastal villa tomorrow, and you're still going out? Have you packed your things yet?"

"Don't you have hands?" I met his gaze without flinching. "Pack your own bags, Enzo."

The silence that followed was exquisite. He stood there, mouth half-open, as though the concept of self-sufficiency had short-circuited something fundamental in his brain. I didn't wait for a recovery. I picked up my coat and walked out the front door.

The night air hit my skin like cold silk. I drove myself to Ristorante Luca, a place tucked behind an unassuming facade on the Upper East Side where the wine list ran longer than most novels and the clientele knew better than to ask questions. I ordered a bone-in ribeye, a half-bottle of Barolo, and a whole Maine lobster. I ate slowly, savoring every bite with the quiet satisfaction of a woman spending her own money in a world that wanted her to be grateful for crumbs.

With my own tribute, my own earnings, I could dine wherever I pleased.

I stayed out well past midnight, lingering over an espresso and a second glass of wine, watching the city pulse through floor-to-ceiling windows. There was no rush. There was nothing to rush back to.

When I finally returned to the estate, every light was out. The house sat in total darkness, silent as a mausoleum. Despite me being gone for hours, not a single call. Not a single message. No one had checked in. No one had wondered if I was safe, if I'd been followed, if I'd driven off a bridge. They had simply gone to bed, each of them, without a second thought for the woman who kept the roof over their heads and the wolves from their door.

I navigated the darkened hallway by memory, my fingers trailing along the cool plaster walls until I reached the bedroom. I pushed the door open, crossed to the bed, and sat down on the edge of the mattress.

A scream shattered the silence.

"Ah!"

My hand found the bedside lamp. Light flooded the room in a warm, merciless glow, and there she was. Rosalia Vitale, lying in my spot, her dark hair fanned across my pillow, the sheets pulled up to her collarbone as though she belonged there.

Something detonated behind my ribs. Five years of swallowed fury, of bitten tongues and clenched fists and quiet, corrosive patience. It all converged into a single, white-hot point. Before I could think, before reason had any chance of intervening, my hand connected with her face. The crack of the slap echoed off the bedroom walls like a gunshot.

Rosalia crumpled, clutching her cheek, tears spilling instantly. Enzo shot upright beside her, his arm sweeping around her shoulders like a shield. "Why did you hit her? We were just talking and must have fallen asleep. It was an accident."

"An accident." I tasted the word, and it was ash. "So you accidentally ended up in bed together. Holding each other. In my bed. That's the story you're going with."

"We were waiting for you!" Enzo's voice rose, defensive and loud, the volume compensating for the weakness of the argument. "You were out until God knows when, so Rosalia stayed to keep me company. We talked for a while, and then we fell asleep. It's perfectly normal."

"Then why didn't you call me? Why didn't you send a single message?" I held up my phone, the screen bare of notifications, and let him see it. "Too busy catching up with your old neighborhood flame? And the two of you couldn't wait in the living room? You had to come to the bedroom, to my side of the bed?"

Enzo's face darkened, his jaw set in that stubborn, cornered expression I'd come to know so well over five years. "You're being unreasonable, Camilla."

I was done. Done arguing with a man who couldn't see what was right in front of him because he refused to open his eyes. I turned to Rosalia, who was still curled against the headboard, tears tracking mascara down her cheeks in thin, theatrical lines.

"I'm back now. So why don't you leave?" My voice was quiet, controlled, each word placed with surgical precision. "Or were you planning for all three of us to share the bed?"

Rosalia didn't acknowledge me. She didn't even look in my direction. She pressed her palm to her reddened cheek and turned her face toward Enzo, her lower lip trembling. "Enzo, it really hurts."

Enzo's entire body softened. The anger, the defensiveness, all of it dissolved in an instant, replaced by a tenderness he had never once shown me. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from beneath her eyes. "I'll get you some medicine."

After they left the chamber, I shut the heavy oak door and turned the iron deadbolt until it clicked into place. The sound was small, but it echoed through me like a declaration of war.

I stripped the bed down to the mattress. Every sheet, every pillowcase that carried even a trace of the evening's indignity, I pulled free and replaced with fresh linens from the armoire. Then I put in my earbuds, lay back against the cool pillow, and forced myself into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, Rico found me in the corridor outside the kitchen. His jaw was set like cut marble, and the vein at his temple pulsed with a fury he didn't bother to conceal.

"What was that last night?" His voice was low, the kind of quiet that preceded violence in this household. "I knocked for twenty minutes, Camilla. Twenty. My mother and father woke up because of it. You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

I met his gaze without flinching. "Yes, I did it on purpose. I thought I'd give you the chance to share quarters with Mala. You should be thanking me."

Something shifted behind his eyes. He looked at me the way one might look at a dog that had suddenly bared its teeth. "Are you out of your mind, Camilla? Why would I sleep with Mala? You're my wife. You're La Sposa of this house."

"Oh, so you still remember that." I kept my tone flat, stripped of everything except cold fact. "I thought once Malavita Contarini walked back through those doors, I'd be out of the picture entirely."

As if summoned by the sound of her own name, Mala appeared at the far end of the hallway. She moved with the practiced grace of a woman raised in the parlors of powerful men, her dark hair swept over one shoulder, her expression arranged into something soft and concerned.

"Please, don't argue because of me." Her voice carried just the right tremor of guilt. "We're supposed to be leaving for the retreat. I'd never forgive myself if my being here caused tension between you two. That's the last thing I want."

Rico turned to me, and I watched the last flicker of doubt leave his face. "You see? You see how she handles herself? Mala has grace. She has class. Unlike you, with your petty games and locked doors."

The click of Donna Rosaria's heels preceded her arrival. The Matriarch stood in the doorway, her posture rigid as forged steel, her eyes surveying the scene with the cold efficiency of a woman who had managed this household's hierarchy for three decades.

"Camilla." My name in her mouth was never a greeting. It was always a correction. "Your temper is becoming a problem. Barring your husband from his own quarters? In this house, that is unacceptable. We will overlook it this once, since we are leaving for the gathering. But do not test me again."

Don Salvatore's voice rolled in from the adjacent room like distant thunder. He did not bother to step into the hallway. He didn't need to. "This is what happens when you show too much leniency. A husband is the head of his household. He is the heir to this Family. And she seals the door against him?" A pause, heavy with contempt. "Disgraceful. A bride like this needs to be reminded of her place. Sharply, if necessary."

Nicoletta materialized at her mother's elbow, a porcelain cup of espresso cradled in her manicured fingers. She sipped, smiled, and let the blade slide in with a giggle. "Careful, Camilla. With that temper of yours, my brother might just dissolve this arrangement altogether. And then where would you be?"

I caught Mala's eyes over Nic's shoulder. The mask of the concerned peacemaker had slipped, just for a heartbeat. Beneath it was something triumphant. Something that glittered like a knife turned in lamplight. She held my gaze, and the corner of her mouth curled with the quiet satisfaction of a woman who believed she had already won.

Rico said nothing in my defense. Not a word. He simply dragged all of the luggage across the foyer tiles and lined the cases up in front of me like a barricade.