Chapter 5

I barely sleep.

People in our world don't really sleep after a betrayal—

we half-doze, half-plan vendetta, pacing inside our own bones.

By sunrise, I'm sitting at Nico's cabin table with a cup of espresso I'm not drinking, staring at the hard drive full of footage he pulled from the resort cameras.

Nico places another espresso in front of me. "You don't have to watch everything."

"I need to," I say quietly.

He hesitates, then sits across from me—

steady, grounded, consigliere calm radiating off him.

The opposite of Dante's chaotic, selfish capo energy.

I open the first file.

There's Dante at midnight, stumbling drunk on grappa.

There's Valentina looping her arm around his waist, marking her territory all over a married man.

There's The Commission, pretending this is acceptable because it benefits them to ignore the code.

Every angle, every touch, every glance is another oath violation I'd been too loyal to see.

Nico watches my hands tremble. "Gabriella…"

"I'm okay."

I'm not.

But I'm done lying to myself.

—

We're halfway through the footage when my phone rings.

Unknown number.

"County Sheriff's Office" below it.

My body goes still.

I answer. "Pronto?"

A calm male voice: "Is this Gabriella Moretti-Santoro?"

"…Sì."

"This is Officer Ramirez. Your husband, Dante Santoro, listed you as his emergency contact."

My pulse spikes, sharp and cold.

Of course I'm still his emergency contact—

made men rarely update that unless they truly choose to break with their wives.

And he never chose anyone fully.

He just enjoyed having both.

"What happened?" I ask.

"He's in custody. A bar altercation. A woman he was with reported he stepped in to defend her. He threw a punch at another patron."

Defending his goumada.

Of course he did.

My stomach turns.

"Was her name—"

I already know.

I don't want to say it.

But I do.

"Valentina Russo?"

A pause.

"Yes, ma'am."

Nico mutters a Sicilian curse.

Officer Ramirez continues, "He's not injured. He refused medical evaluation. Thought you should know."

Refused medical care so Valentina would think he was being a tough guy.

Classic made man ego.

"Grazie," I say tightly and hang up.

Nico stands. "Gabriella. Tell me you're done."

I keep staring at the screen—

at the footage of Dante laughing with Valentina like he wasn't married,

like our sacred vows weren't real,

like I was a convenient placeholder until he found something more exciting.

"I'm not done," I whisper.

"I'm finished."

And there's a difference.

—

The footage continues.

At 1 a.m., Valentina pulls Dante into her lap.

At 1:14, she nuzzles his neck—

her perfume smearing over his oath scar.

At 1:16, he doesn't stop her.

His body doesn't push back.

He leans into the violation like his vows mean nothing.

I scroll.

And the numbness inside me grows.

This isn't heartbreak.

Heartbreak implies something still beating.

This is clarity.

The kind that comes when something inside you dies.

And the woman that rises in its place is sharper.

Colder.

Forged in the fires of Sicilian vendetta.

—

A knock on the cabin door.

Nico answers.

A courier hands me a white envelope.

I open it.

A bill.

Emergency Medical Transport Charge: $2,400

Patient: Dante Santoro

Responsible Party: Gabriella Moretti-Santoro

He had them bill me.

For defending his goumada.

My blood boils with righteous Sicilian fury.

Nico snatches the paper. "He's pazzo. Crazy."

"No," I whisper. "He's predictable."

Another paper slips out.

A hotel receipt.

Two nights.

One room.

Two guests.

On our anniversary weekend.

The smell of betrayal is so thick even God could smell it from heaven.

Nico watches my face. "Gabriella…"

But I'm calm.

Too calm.

Sicilian women only get this quiet before they strike with vendetta.

"I'm calling Rebecca," I say.

"The lawyer?"

"Sì."

He hands me my phone without question.

—

Rebecca answers on the second ring. "Gabriella. I saw the livestream rumors. Are you safe?"

"Yes," I say. "But I'm done playing the good wife."

Her voice sharpens like a blade. "Tell me everything."

"I have footage. Messages. Receipts. Proof of asset misuse. And he's in police custody for defending his goumada."

Rebecca whistles softly. "You have enough to initiate divorce, seize assets, freeze accounts, and strip him of corporate control."

"Bene," I say. "Do all of it."

"Gabriella, once we start—there's no going back."

"I don't want to go back."

Silence.

Then Rebecca speaks, crisp and lethal:

"Send me everything."

I look at the hard drive.

At my shaking hands.

At the empty marriage vow drifting uselessly inside my chest.

"It's already on its way," I say.

Rebecca exhales. "Then Dante Santoro is finished."

"No," I whisper.

"He's about to be."

—

I hang up.

Nico leans back against the counter. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

I meet his eyes.

"He threw me to the wolves," I say. "I'm just returning the favor—Sicilian style."

He nods once—respectful, fierce. "Then let's burn him down."

I zip the evidence into a folder.

Stand.

Breathe.

And for the first time in years—

my lungs feel full of righteous fury.

My phone buzzes.

A text from Dante:

I'm being released. Come pick me up.

I laugh.

Short, sharp, broken clean.

Pick him up.

From jail.

After he protected his goumada.

After he violated every sacred vow.

I type two words in Italian.

Me: Chiedi a Valentina.

Ask Valentina.

Send.

Nico raises an eyebrow. "What did you tell him?"

"That I'm done being his emergency contact."

But he has no idea—

I'm about to become

his worst nightmare.

Because in our world—

Vendetta is a dish best served with evidence.