On our tenth wedding anniversary, I received a call from the family's private jeweler.

He was confused. My husband, Trevor Thorne, had used the Marchesi family signet to trade for an off-market pink diamond bracelet for a "Miss Russo."

I called Trevor.

"Did you recently let someone use the family signet?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end, then he chuckled. "Oh, I lent it to Gianna a few days ago. A little something to grease the wheels with an important politician."

Gianna was a soldato in his crew. And I had sent her to Miami last week.

More importantly, the Russo family are our potential rivals.

I didn't ask any more questions and hung up.

I headed straight for the location my informant had given me.

A discreet private club. The woman, Cassia Russo, was nestled in Trevor's arms.

Trevor had warned me time and time again that the Russos were all untrustworthy vipers.

It seemed he quite enjoyed dancing with snakes.

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1

When the woman went to the terrace to take a call, I followed.

I approached the railing beside her and lit a cigarette. In the reflection on the glass, our eyes met. I saw the defiance in hers.

It was her.

We sized each other up in the glass reflection. I saw the triumph in her eyes, the unconscious straightening of her spine.

Just as she was about to turn, I stopped her with a smile. "That's quite a unique bracelet on your wrist."

She froze, her hand drifting to her wrist, then replied, pride coloring her tone, "Is it? A suitor gave it to me."

I sneered inwardly. A simple test and she walked right into it. The nerve, to touch something that belonged to the Marchesi family.

I glanced at her bracelet and asked nonchalantly, "Don't be nervous. I just think it's very special. Did you just get it? Can you tell me where it's from?"

Her expression tightened. She looked down and muttered, "He really likes me, so he gave me the best. I didn't pay much attention to where it came from."

She paused, then looked me up and down. "As the Principessa of the Marchesi family, your life must be so boring. You don't even have a single piece of decent jewelry."

Excellent.

Pretending to be innocent while simultaneously belittling me and flaunting the affection she'd received. Still trying to provoke me at a time like this.

A pathetic attempt. It barely registered.

I strode forward and, to her horror, grabbed her arm, my grip like iron.

"How long have you been wearing it?"

She stumbled back a step in fear.

"About three years, I think."

Her answer landed like a stone in my gut.

Three years ago was a critical time for the family, a period of transition. My father had handed over the southern district's business to me. I was constantly traveling between our various territories.

My life was a constant cycle of putting out fires or racing to the next one.

But as long as we were in the same city, my husband, Trevor Thorne, would meticulously arrange everything, leaving me torn between gratitude and a pang of guilt.

I once asked him if he resented me for putting the family business first.

He had smiled and replied, "You just focus on expanding our territory. I'll always be your biggest supporter."

I knew that maintaining a family alliance through marriage wasn't easy. And I was the one who always carried the weight of that guilt.

However, in that moment, I finally understood that all my guilt had been a fool's errand. He had never sacrificed a single thing for me.

The memory of my first real suspicion surfaced, sharp and bitter. I had composed myself, pressing my temples to mask the murder in my eyes. I had torn open his shirt.

I had let out a cold laugh, feigning surprise. "An interesting choice of tattoo. Is that the Marchesi family falcon? Then why is there a snake under it?"

I was all too familiar with this tattoo. It was the exclusive emblem designed for us when we married, a falcon totem symbolizing our union.

It was also a celebratory gift for when I secured the first major territory for the family.

Now, beneath the falcon's talons, there was a coiled viper—the symbol of the Russo family.

Trevor had told me this tattoo symbolized our eternal loyalty and that I shouldn't overthink it.

At the time, I was even angry with him for not understanding what the totem meant to our family.

Looking back now, it was laughable. It was nothing less than a confession of his betrayal and an indictment of my own foolishness.

I could picture her now, eyes darting in panic, lips trembling, unable to utter a single word if I were to call her out on it.

Just then, Trevor rushed over.

As if granted amnesty, she scrambled to hide behind him.

I watched her scramble away, a contemptuous smile touching my lips. I nonchalantly flicked the ash from my cigarette and turned to leave.

Then, I called my brother, Dominic Marchesi.

Dominic was the Underboss of the Marchesi family, and also Trevor's superior.

I said calmly, "Dominic, freeze Trevor out. From everything. I'm cleaning house. Yes, that's right. He's been keeping a snake. A Russo snake."

My brother's intel unit was fast. That evening, I received an encrypted hard drive.

I connected it to my laptop and saw the truth Trevor had been hiding from me all along.

Every last bit of it.

On October 10th of last year, I was in an "accidental" car crash while inspecting our territory in the South Side of Chicago. We had planned to celebrate my victory together, but Trevor was unreachable. I was in the hospital for three days and lost our child.

As it turned out, he was vacationing overseas with Cassia, celebrating their upcoming "new life."

On November 6th, after the miscarriage, I was recovering at home, my spirit broken. He presented me with what he claimed was a long-lost Renaissance masterpiece, saying he’d pulled countless strings to find it.

We had a dinner that night, intimate and candlelit, a perfect illusion of warmth.

Only now did I learn that the art was just a vehicle for him to launder money to her family.

That seemingly elaborate date he prepared, from the wine list to the decor, was just a carbon copy of his date with her the day before.

The next day, he left under the pretext of a business trip, but he was actually taking Cassia to a cruise party.

In the party photos, everyone was smiling happily. Most of them were Capos in our family. Some had even sat at the main table at our wedding.

There they were, having the time of their lives with Trevor and his mistress. Such loyal men of his.

As I scrolled through the contents of the hard drive, my heart plunged into an icy abyss.

Just as I was about to close the laptop, the name of an audio file caught my eye.

My breath caught, and a chill snaked up my spine. With a trembling finger, I clicked on the file.

It was a recording of a conversation between Trevor and a hitman.

At the bottom of the report, a warning was written in stark letters: Attack is highly effective during early-stage pregnancy. Guarantees foolproof miscarriage.

Scrolling further down, I saw a screenshot of Cassia's encrypted messages.

She was reassuring Trevor.

Our child is the only future for this family.

Someone had replied to her message.

Ready to welcome the new heir already?

She replied with a smug smiley face.

My ears were ringing. My miscarriage wasn't an accident.

Trevor, under the guise of consolidating territory, had orchestrated the attack himself.

The cruelest joke of all was that the reason I hadn't been able to conceive again wasn't, as the family doctor had said, because my body needed time to recover.

It was because the attack was designed to leave me barren from the very beginning.

This was a declaration of war.

I laughed until tears streamed down my face. All the details I had deliberately ignored came rushing back to me.

The occasional scent of a strange perfume on him. The hushed phone calls on the balcony late at night.

The glass of water he so attentively handed me the night before my miscarriage.

How could I have been so foolish? I was so tired that even hating him felt meaningless.

I scrubbed the tears from my face.

I would make them both pay.

As my thoughts churned, an encrypted number called.

I took a deep breath and answered.

"Who is this?"

A mocking female voice came through the phone. My arch-nemesis, the head of the Irish mob, Isolde Keane.

"Well, well, look who it is. You're still alive! I thought you were dead. Trevor Thorne is in quite a hurry to introduce his next lady of the house."

After years as rivals, I knew she was only calling to gloat.

I ignored her taunt and asked, "What did you see?"

She scoffed. "So you're not a complete idiot. There's a joint peace summit here. And Trevor Thorne is busy introducing his new partner to everyone."

She added, "I just sent you the security access code."

I glanced at the address. It was only an hour's drive from me. How dare they be so blatant, right under my nose?

I let out a cold laugh. New partner?

The absolute nerve. How could his legal wife possibly miss such a party?

I headed straight for the address. As soon as I got in the car, a message from Trevor arrived.

Darling, are you not home? I happened to check the gallery's surveillance to see the new collection and didn't see you.

All his recent concern for my health and state of mind... it wasn't for my well-being, but to ensure I wouldn't derail his little production.

I replied with a cold smile and a photo.