Chapter Four

“Alliance Day” was held at the Corleone family’s seaside estate. The fortress-like building blazed with lights tonight. Guests flooded in. The air was a blend of cigars, expensive perfume, and hidden power.

I chose a dark emerald velvet gown, as deep and muted as the sea, brightened only by a strand of pearls at my throat. I was the hostess tonight; every curve of every smile had been calculated.

Vincent was the unquestioned king. He moved among guests, clinking glasses with senators, whispering with bishops, occasionally throwing me a glance—eyes full of a proprietorial devotion. I returned my smile. Inside, I was a frozen wasteland.

By schedule, after dessert he was supposed to take the stage and deliver the annual address to his “loyal partners.”

But as the servers began clearing the main-course plates, his seat was still empty.

Marco hurried to my side, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Mrs. Corleone,” he said under his breath, panic barely hidden, “sir is… in the study on an ‘urgent overseas call.’ We can’t leave the speech slot empty. If you—”

His eyes held real pleading.

I looked at him, then at the empty chair.

With Vincent’s obsession with ritual and control, he would never miss this moment of consolidating authority unless the sky had fallen.

I nodded, voice steady. “I’ll do it.”

Under the guests’ curious and measuring stares, I walked onto the stage. The lights were harsh. Below me were men in suits and their jewel-draped companions—calculation hiding behind every face.

I had no script, but the words had been rehearsed in my mind a thousand times.

“The Corleone family,” my voice carried through the microphone—clear, even, without Vincent’s theatrical crescendos, yet holding a quiet weight—“is built not only on shipping routes and numbers, but on trust and inheritance. Trust in our partners. Inheritance—a more… stable future for our children.”

Applause rose—more cautious than what Vincent received, but longer. I gave a slight nod, sweeping my gaze across the room.

Vincent still didn’t appear.

A cold instinct tightened around my heart.

I maintained perfect composure as I left the hall and headed down the corridor to the side wing. Thick Persian carpet swallowed my footsteps. I was alone—

until, passing a small smoking room, I heard sound through the half-closed door.

Not a phone call.

Suppressed, urgent breathing. The whisper of fabric rubbing.

And a voice I could never mistake—Adriana’s—low with smugness and coy sweetness.

My feet nailed to the floor. My blood froze.

The sound pierced my ears like a poisoned ice spike.

The crack of the door was narrow, but enough.

Vincent had Adriana pressed against a mahogany sideboard lined with crystal decanters. His tux jacket hung open, his bow tie crooked. Her work pants zipper was half down. One high heel lay on the floor. They were drowning in desire, blind to the world beyond the door. The air was thick with sweet perfume and sex.

Even as she moved with him, Adriana asked—breathless, challenging:

“…Aren’t you afraid your ‘jewel wife’ will suddenly walk in? Tell me—tonight, whose performance do you want to test more?”

Vincent didn’t stop. There was even a reckless pleasure in him, indulging on the edge of danger. His voice was hoarse, yet painfully clear:

“…Wild kitten… right now, of course it’s you… you’re the one who makes me…”

“…want you more.”

Those last words seared through every last layer of my calm like red-hot iron.

I didn’t keep watching.

I turned and left.

My heels made no sound on the soft carpet—yet each step felt like stepping on my own shattered heart. The world spun, and only *want you more* kept screaming in my ears.

Enough. This nauseating performance ends now.

I returned to the master bedroom as if sleepwalking. I opened the heavy oak door with my fingerprint. Luxury and deathly silence rushed out to meet me. The air still carried the cologne he always used—bitter orange and cedar.

I walked straight into the back of the dressing room, opened the hidden safe, and took out the travel bag I’d prepared long ago.

Inside were new identity papers, several passports under different names, untraceable cash, a compact Beretta, and an encrypted drive packed with evidence.

Finally, I looked at the woman in the mirror. Pale. But her eyes were frighteningly calm.

I left no note.

Any words, in the face of this total, dignity-crushing betrayal, would be laughably cheap.

Then I left this heavily guarded fortress like a ghost.

The car rolled into thick night.

Phoenix Corleone’s life ended the night she personally severed every tie to this dark world of glory.

And Vincent Corleone—when you return to that icy room with only a divorce agreement and a mountain of proof, your carefully built empire will only just be starting to crack from the core.