Chapter 4

Night falls fast at Serenity Peaks, swallowing the lake in black glass.

Down below, The Commission gathers around the bonfire like some twisted famiglia ritual—

people circling beneath a moon that has witnessed a thousand broken vows.

I stand in the dark cabin, arms folded, watching my husband melt into the glow beside Valentina Russo.

If last night was disrespect,

tonight is confirmation.

The marriage between us isn't just frayed—

it's dying like an oath written in blood that's being washed away.

---

"Limoncello shots!" Luca howls.

People cheer.

Valentina straightens Dante's collar, brushing her fingers deliberately over his oath scar—

the sacred mark where he swore allegiance to family honor.

Only a wife should touch it.

The way she does it is practiced.

Routine.

A complete violation of the code.

His body doesn't even flinch.

Mine wants to scream vendetta.

Nico glances at me. "One word. I'll end this."

"No," I say.

Because this isn't about stopping him.

It's about collecting evidence of his betrayal.

Evidence that will destroy him when I bring it before the family.

I lift the binoculars again—

And that's when Valentina starts talking.

Loud.

Clear.

Performing for the Commission.

"So… story time!" She sips her Amaretto, eyes glowing with smug fire. "Remember, Dante, when you left your own wedding reception to meet me at the social club?"

The fire cracks.

My heartbeat does too.

Dante chuckles. "We were kids."

"You were married," she corrects, smiling like she's proud of making him break his vows.

Luca whistles. "Legendary."

Legendary.

Leaving your wife alone on your wedding night—after swearing sacred vows before the priest and the Don—is legendary.

My hands shake.

Valentina rests her head on Dante's shoulder—

the precise angle that says "I'm his real woman, not that wife."

"At least you were honest with me," she purrs. "You hated that reception."

He laughs. "I just needed to clear my head."

Clear his head.

With his goumada.

Not with his wife.

Nico mutters in Sicilian, "Disgraziat'."

But it's not just disgraceful.

It's what he is when he thinks no one's keeping score.

—

Then Valentina crosses a line only a woman without honor would touch.

"We talked about bambini once," she says lazily. "Remember that?"

My stomach drops, claws scraping inside my chest.

Dante stiffens. "Valentina—"

"Oh, come on. Everyone already knows." She waves a hand. "You said you'd rather have children with someone who truly understands this life."

My breath halts.

Nico straightens. "He said what?"

My vision pulses red at the edges.

She keeps going—

she doesn't have the instinct to stop.

"It's not like Gabriella wants kids," Valentina adds sweetly, tilting her head. "Or can have them."

Someone laughs—

short, sharp, cutting.

The kind of laugh that ends marriages in our world.

I grip the windowsill.

Her words hit the place inside me where the marriage vow already broke—

the part that remembered the nights I prayed to the Virgin Mary,

asking why I couldn't give him children.

It wasn't God's will.

It was his betrayal poisoning everything.

He told her.

He told his goumada my deepest shame.

Valentina doesn't even realize she just signed his death warrant in my eyes.

Something in me shifts—

not breaking,

snapping into place like the hammer of a gun.

This is what Sicilian revenge feels like.

Not warm.

Not gentle.

Wildfire baptized in holy water.

—

Valentina slides into Dante's lap.

He doesn't push her away.

His hands settle on her hips automatically—

a made man responding to a woman who isn't his wife.

Automatic.

Effortless.

Like he's done it a hundred times.

Like his wedding ring means nothing.

Nico swears in Italian. "I'm going down there."

"No."

My voice is quiet but final—

with the authority my grandmother taught me.

"If this is who he is, I want to see every inch of it."

"Why torture yourself?"

"Torture?"

I exhale slowly.

"No. Evidence."

Because I'm done loving a man who breaks sacred vows.

Done defending someone who wouldn't defend our marriage before God.

Done bleeding for a bond he left to rot like a corpse in the street.

My phone buzzes.

Dante: Where are you?

A second buzz.

Dante: We need to talk.

Talk.

He's sitting beside his goumada, letting her mark him with her scent—

and he wants to "talk."

I lift the binoculars again.

As if on cue, Valentina shouts:

"Dante, come do shots with me!"

He stands immediately.

Like she owns him.

Like her voice controls his movements.

Like his marriage vows were written in disappearing ink.

He doesn't check his phone.

He doesn't remember his wife exists.

He doesn't hesitate.

He just goes.

Again.

And with that,

the last piece falls into place.

"He already chose," I whisper.

Nico's voice is rough. "What now?"

I set down the binoculars.

The night feels still—

like the moment right before a Sicilian woman declares vendetta

and the whole world trembles.

"We get the footage," I say. "Every second."

"Gabriella…"

"I'm done being the wife who doesn't know."

I grab my coat.

Nico nods once—consigliere loyal, steady. "Then let's end it."

I move toward the door.

Because tomorrow morning, Dante will wake up thinking he's still in control—

that his marriage, his status, his broken vows can survive one more day.

But he has no idea—

I'm already walking toward the fire

with evidence that will burn his world to ashes.

Because in our world—

You don't just break omertà.

You pay for it.