Chapter 1

I pushed open that door. Live. With the world watching.

Five years ago, I walked away from the Romano empire to build an ordinary life with Marco.

Five years later, his stepsister sent me a video: him pressing her against the desk I'd picked out, his parents watching like it was a christening.

An hour later, he proposed with the exact ring she wore: "Valentina, let me prove you made the right choice."

I smiled and said yes. Then called my father: "I need a crew. Surveillance. Untraceable broadcast. My wedding day."

Now white roses drown the cathedral. Fifty thousand viewers watching "the most romantic wedding of the year."

I'm walking toward the bridal suite—the door carved with our initials.

Inside: her moans. His promises. "She's like fucking ice. You're alive."

I face the camera, smiling perfectly: "Want to see the groom's surprise?"

The red light blinks. The whole world is watching.

I push the door open.

They forgot one satisfying truth: Hell hath no fury like a mafia princess scorned.

……

The phone screen lit up in the darkness of my penthouse, casting shadows across the walls. Bianca—Marco's pathetic little stepsister—had sent me a gift.

I pressed play.

The footage was shaky, but I'd recognize that room anywhere. The back office of Marco's social club in Red Hook, the one I'd convinced my father to let him run. The leather couch I'd picked out. The mahogany desk where we'd planned our future.

And there he was, my fiancé, pressing Bianca against that desk, his hands tangled in her hair, kissing her like she was oxygen and he was drowning.

"Finally!" someone cheered off-camera. "Thought you'd never make a move, boss."

"They're perfect together," a woman's voice cooed.

The camera panned, and my blood turned to ice. Lorenzo and Francesca Vitale—my future in-laws—stood in the doorway wearing expressions of pure satisfaction, like they were watching their son close a major deal instead of betraying his fiancée.

Five years. Five years I'd walked away from the Romano family, from my birthright, to build something real with Marco. To prove love mattered more than power.

My hand trembled as I set down the phone. Then I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. Good. Let the pain sharpen me. Let the rage burn clean and hot.

I walked to my study and opened the hidden safe behind the bookshelf, retrieving a burner phone I'd hoped never to use again. My finger hovered over the single number stored in its memory before I pressed call.

It rang once.

"Val." My father's voice came through, stripped of warmth. "After five years of playing house in Brooklyn, the first thing you do is call?"

"I need a crew. Top-tier surveillance. Untraceable broadcast equipment." I kept my voice steady, professional. "And I need it yesterday."

Salvatore Romano didn't laugh—he never laughed—but I heard something like amusement in his silence.

"That's quite a shopping list. What makes you think you can walk back in and start making demands?"

I dug my nails into my palm, using the pain to maintain control. "Because we both know I'm still the best option you have to run this family. And because right now, I need what only you can provide."

The silence stretched longer this time. When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of negotiation. "Here's the price: you end this civilian fantasy. You come back to the family. You prove to me—and to every capo and soldier watching—that Valentina Romano can run this operation when I'm gone."

I closed my eyes. The cost was steep. My freedom, my quiet life, the illusion of normalcy. But Marco had already burned those to ash.

"Deal."

"Smart girl. My man Dante will reach out within the hour. He'll set you up with everything you need." He paused. "Don't disappoint me, Val. You only get one chance to come home."

The line went dead.

Thirty minutes later, my doorbell rang. I smoothed my expression and opened the door. Marco stood there with white roses, his smile practiced and perfect, the same smile that once made my heart race.

"Ready, beautiful?" He took my hand, pressing his lips to my knuckles. "I got us a table at Carmelo's. Top floor, just you and me."

I looked at those lips that had been on Bianca an hour ago and felt my stomach turn. But I smiled. "Let me grab my coat."

Carmelo's was packed with Marco's associates, all of them eager to congratulate the up-and-coming soldier who'd somehow landed a beauty like me. They clapped him on the back, whistled, made crude jokes about our wedding night.

"Lucky bastard," someone called out. "Boss is moving up in the world!"

If only they knew what Marco had really been doing with the connections I'd given him. The territories I'd convinced my father to let him manage. The operations I'd built from nothing while he took the credit.

Under the crystal chandeliers, surrounded by wise guys in expensive suits, Marco dropped to one knee. He pulled out a velvet box, and the ring inside caught the light—a blood-red ruby surrounded by diamonds.

My heart stopped. Not because of the proposal. Because I'd seen that exact ring two weeks ago on Bianca's finger in a photo she'd "accidentally" sent me.

"Valentina," Marco's voice carried across the room, and everyone fell silent. "These five years with you have been the best of my life. You saved me, believed in me when no one else did. Marry me. Let me spend forever proving you made the right choice."

The room erupted in cheers. Phones came out, cameras pointed at us. I made sure I was perfectly framed in every shot.

Every instinct screamed at me to expose him right here, right now. To throw my drink in his face and tell everyone what kind of man he really was. But that would be too easy. Too quick.

I wanted him to suffer the way he'd made me suffer.

"Yes," I said, my smile bright enough to blind. "Yes, I'll marry you."

He slid the ring onto my finger—Bianca's ring—and pulled me into his arms. When he tried to kiss me, I turned my head at the last second, letting his lips land on my cheek.

"Baby, I'm sorry," he whispered in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "Something came up at the club. I gotta handle it."

I pulled back, letting concern flood my expression. "Is it serious? Do you need backup?"

"No!" The refusal came too fast, almost panicked. Then he softened his voice. "Just stay here, enjoy the party. I'll be back before you know it."

I nodded, the dutiful girlfriend. The moment he disappeared through the crowd, I let my smile die.

My phone buzzed. A message from Bianca: "He said the ring you picked was too tacky. Good thing I have better taste."

Then another: "BTW—he says you kiss like you're already dead."

I locked myself in the bathroom and dry-heaved over the sink, mascara running down my face. My reflection looked like a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, pathetic.

Then my burner phone rang.

"Miss Romano." The voice was smooth, professional. "My name is Dante Moretti. Your father sent me. The surveillance equipment is in place. Just say when."

I turned on the faucet, splashed cold water on my face, and watched the broken girl in the mirror transform into something harder. Something sharp.

"The wedding day," I said. "I want the world watching when I burn his life to the ground."