After I Left My Mafia Husband, He Shed Tears of Regret

Bianca, Don Barresi signed off on your separation papers from the Family's front operations. But I don't think he realized it was you. Do you want me to let him know?

Bianca kept her gaze on the documents in her hands, the faint glow of the desk lamp catching the embossed letterhead. Shaking her head, she said, "No need."

"Bianca." The clerk from the Commission office sighed softly, as if trying one last time. "He still cares about you, you know. Everyone in the Family thought you and the Boss were a perfect match. Maybe just think it through?"

A bitter scoff slipped past Bianca's lips.

Little did they know whatever bond existed between her and Vittorio Barresi wasn't mere gossip. They were already bound by the Church.

Their union was sacred, sealed in a private ceremony witnessed by a priest and two made men who would carry the secret to their graves. But love and duty were two different beasts, and Bianca had learned that lesson in blood three months ago.

A hit team from a rival outfit had shattered her spine. She had needed her husband to come to the private clinic and authorize the emergency surgery that would save her.

But she lost count of the calls she made before he finally answered. Worse, when he did, his voice was cold and impatient.

"It's just a minor attack. You'll heal. Hang on I'm still at Viviana's charity dinner."

Viviana Ricci.

Her closest friend.

That was the night Bianca realized her husband had betrayed not just their vow but the sanctity of the marriage sacrament itself.

In the end, as she lay fighting for her life, she had to sign her own surgical consent with trembling hands.

Just before she was wheeled into the operating room, Vittorio arrived his arm around Viviana.

The woman had cut her hand on a champagne flute. For her sake, he pulled Dr. Bellandi aside, demanding she be treated first.

That brief delay the minutes they lost cost Bianca blood and breath.

She spent the next seven days in a guarded recovery suite, not knowing if she would ever walk again.

That was when she finally accepted the truth.

Some bonds, when they rot, must be severed. Now that I've healed, it's time to walk away.

Bianca looked up at the clerk, her voice calm. "People change," she said softly. "I stood by him through the hardest three years of his reign. That's enough."

For all those years, the woman Vittorio truly loved had always been Viviana.

Bianca was merely a byproduct of that one night long ago when Vittorio had been drugged at a gala and ended up in her bed.

When the scandal threatened the Commission's trust, he had offered to marry her on one condition: no one must ever know.

Now that Viviana had returned to Frostmere Docks, Bianca had no intention of clinging to a marriage the heavens had clearly abandoned.

But before she left, she had one last thing to do. Four parting gifts each one a celebration of the freedom they would soon have from one another.

With the annulment papers in her bag, Bianca pushed open the heavy oak doors to Vittorio's private office.

Inside, Vittorio stood before the marble credenza, trimming the stems of white lilies pale blossoms that caught the low lamplight like bone. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms.

He had never been one for romance. He used to mock other men in the Family who gifted their wives with flowers.

"Pointless things," he'd said once on Christmas Eve. "Dead within a week."

In the three years they'd shared the same roof, Bianca had never received so much as a single petal.

Those lilies weren't hers; they were Viviana's favorite.

A few clipped stems dropped into the wastebasket before he finally turned. "Back to duties already? How's the recovery?"

He placed the bouquet in a crystal vase on the windowsill, adjusted a petal and added, "About that night I didn't mean for things to go that way. Viviana's not like you. She's fragile. One little scratch and she faints. Besides, there was only one doctor on call."

He smiled. "But I knew you'd be fine. You've survived worse, haven't you? Grew up with nothing. A small wound's nothing to you, right?"

Bianca almost laughed.

He had no idea she was the only daughter of Salvatore Moretti, patriarch of the Moretti Family, an ancient bloodline whose name still carried weight in every Commission room from here to Palermo. The only hardship she'd ever known began the day she bound herself to Vittorio.

He might have known, had she not severed ties with her family to marry him in secrecy.

But she let him believe what he wanted. Silence, to Vittorio, always meant obedience. For that, to him, she always had such a good temper perfect for keeping around.

He walked toward her, holding the bouquet like a prize. "Hey, do you think these are beautiful?"

As the lilies neared her, her throat seized. She turned her head, coughed once, twice sharp and violent.

The allergy burned through her, a spark that turned her chest to fire. He shoved her aside, snarling, "Watch it!"

Her back hit the sharp edge of the mahogany desk. The wound along her spine tore open again, blood seeping through her blouse.

While her vision swam, Vittorio's attention never left the flowers.

"You almost ruined them!" he barked. "Do you have any idea how rare these are? Flown in from a private greenhouse in Amalfi!"

Realizing she couldn't even compete with a bouquet, Bianca let out a bitter laugh.

I stayed three years with this man for this? I must have been blind to love such a fool.

He had never cared enough to know her body couldn't tolerate lilies. Nor that her wounds weren't yet healed.

She steadied herself, drew a breath and pulled the documents from her bag.

"Don Barresi," she said, offering the papers. "I need your signature."

That made him pause. For the first time, his gaze lingered on her. When it was just the two of them, she had always called him by name only never "Don Barresi."

"You just got out of the clinic," he murmured. "You should be resting."

Still, he reached for the papers. Just as his fingers brushed them, his phone buzzed against the desk.

Bianca caught the name glowing across the screen.

[My Heart]

He had saved Viviana that way, while her own name in his phone was simply "Bianca Moretti."

That contrast said everything.

He answered with a grin, bouquet in one hand and strode toward the door.

"I won't be back for dinner. Head home after the sit-down."

Bianca stepped in front of him, flipped to the last page and pressed a pen into his palm.

"Sign it first."

Vittorio smoothed the knot of his tie, a quick, reflexive pull. He was always cautious never signed anything without reading it three times.

But just as he was about to scan the pages, his phone buzzed again.

Even through the near-muted speaker, Viviana's voice purred softly, "Vittorio, I've been waiting forever come to me now."

For once, the ever-cautious Boss didn't read a single word. He flicked his wrist and scrawled his name across the signature line.

"There. Happy now? Can I leave?"

Looking at the still-wet signature, Bianca nodded faintly.

"Yes. You're free now."

This time, she meant it. She gave him the freedom he'd been chasing since the night they met.

As he left, he tossed over his shoulder,

"This office hasn't been cleaned in weeks. You're here why don't you handle it?"

The heavy slam of the door echoed through the room.

Vittorio's office had always been off-limits. Not a speck of dust in sight. Only Bianca ever knew where the spare key was kept, which drawer housed the cleaning supplies, how he liked the edges of papers perfectly aligned.

As she approached his desk, a silver frame caught her eye.

Viviana's smile gleamed from behind the glass the same frame that once held Bianca's face.

Then her gaze drifted to the wastebasket by the cabinet. Her own photo lay there face-down, edges crumpled like discarded paper.

Her lips curved, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. It sliced.

There had been a time when she'd called Viviana "sister." But for Vittorio, her "sister" had always been his heart.

Although Bianca had once loved him, she had buried those feelings for the sake of friendship until that fateful night three years ago.

That was when Viviana vanished, swept away by a powerful man from a distant European syndicate.

That night, Vittorio drank too much, unaware that his wine had been spiked. What followed was a mistake just one reckless night between a Boss and his lost love's closest friend.

The memories flickered through Bianca's mind like dying embers.

She brushed a tear from her cheek, then opened the drawer. Inside lay an old photograph and a sealed letter never opened, never answered.

For four years, she had loved him enough to write ninety-nine letters. But since Viviana's return to Frostmere Docks, every time Vittorio chose her, Bianca burned another one.

The 99th letter turned to ash in the recovery suite. The one in her hand was the last.

It was time to let go.

With a small case of her belongings, Bianca walked out of the Barresi front office and dialed a number on her phone.

"Lorenzo," she said calmly, "didn't you say you liked me? One month from now, once I get the annulment papers certified we'll be married."

At the Valente compound's formal sit-down, Don Lorenzo Valente finally answered her call, but only after confirming through his own people that the voice on the line truly belonged to Bianca Moretti.

"Bianca," his voice came through the receiver, smooth but glacial. "Three years ago, you did everything you could to protect Vittorio Barresi. You cut my calls. You severed all contact. You even had word sent that I should stay out of Frostmere Docks. And now, suddenly, you've changed your mind?"

He gave a low, humorless laugh. "What happened? Your husband didn't give you what you wanted?"

The room fell utterly silent. None of the capos seated around the long table dared to breathe too loudly.

In the old boroughs and the waterfront territories, two bloodlines ruled above all others: the Valentes and the Morettis.

And every made man in the city knew the story of Lorenzo and Bianca. They had grown up together, both from founding families whose fathers sat on the same Commission. Everyone thought they would one day be united in a sanctioned marriage, the kind of alliance that gets blessed at the cathedral and sealed with a toast from the old guard.

When Bianca left her family's household to study abroad near Frostmere, Lorenzo had followed, expanding his legitimate front businesses through the northern districts.

But three years ago, he'd come home without warning. Rumor said he came back with a returned ring and a broken heart.

Now, hearing the edge in his tone, Bianca replied evenly, "Yeah. I couldn't tell the difference between a husband and a warden."

That earned a scoff from the other end, the sound sharp and dismissive.

Taking the hint, Bianca didn't argue. "Forget it," she said coolly. "Pretend I never called."

She was just about to hang up when his voice came through again, low, commanding, carrying the weight of a Don's authority.

"Don't you dare, Bianca."

There was a pause, heavy with tension, before he continued, "Reconnect our lines. All of them. And send me the address of wherever you're staying."

"One month," he added firmly. "I'll come to Frostmere myself to bring you back. This time, you don't get to change your mind."

The sheer confidence in his voice made Bianca laugh quietly, almost in disbelief. "Alright," she said.

Later, in Vittorio's private study, Bianca placed two sets of papers into the wall safe: her signed departure from the Barresi front operations and the annulment decree, both bearing Vittorio's signature.

Then she drew out a glass jar filled with soft, gray ash, the remains of ninety-nine letters she'd written to him over the years.

She uncorked the jar, letting the faint scent of burnt paper fill the air, and took out the old photographs, pictures that once held memories of them together.

One by one, she dropped them into the fireplace.

The flames flickered high, golden at first, then dimmed to a low, guttering blue.

With each fragment consumed, another piece of hope turned to dust.

When the jar was finally full, so was her disappointment.

Moments later, Vittorio returned to the room. The sharp scent of smoke pricked his senses, making him pause in the doorway.

"What are you burning?" he demanded.

Bianca shifted slightly, blocking his view of the fireplace. "Just some old papers," she replied, her voice calm but cold.

Vittorio's brows drew together. Through the smoke, he glimpsed something charred, maybe the edge of a photograph, or perhaps a letter.

But before he could get closer, a woman's soft, teary voice called from the hallway.

Just like that, Vittorio turned on his heel and rushed out while Bianca quickly finished tidying up and followed him out.

At the threshold, she saw him holding Viviana's hand, his mouth brushing against her fingertip as he drew away a single drop of blood. His eyes were filled with tenderness Bianca had never seen turned her way.

"I'm so sorry, Bianca," Viviana said sweetly, her voice laced with false innocence. "I didn't mean to bother you this late."

"But the portrait on the wall," she added quickly, feigning a wince, "it's hung too low. I scratched my finger on the frame. It's really dangerous."

Bianca's chest stirred, not from jealousy but from scorn.

That portrait had been hanging there for three years without harming a soul. And now, the first day she walked in, it just happened to "cut" her.

No, the problem wasn't the picture. It was the bride frozen inside it.

But before Bianca could respond, Vittorio cut in sharply, his tone carrying the weight of command.

"She's right. That portrait's in the way. Bianca, have someone take it down and move it to the storage room."

Out of Vittorio's line of sight, Viviana cast Bianca a triumphant little smirk, a silent declaration of war.

Bianca might no longer love Vittorio, but she wasn't about to make things easy for the woman who'd stolen her place under his roof.

"The storage room's already full," she said flatly. "There's no space left."

Her quiet defiance made Vittorio's jaw tighten.

Viviana, ever the actress, drew in a small, pitiful gasp, clutching her barely scratched finger as if she'd been slashed with a blade. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

"Ouch Vittorio it really hurts."

That was all it took for Vittorio to snap at her.

"Then burn those damn portraits!"

Although Bianca was taken aback, she wasn't surprised.

Vittorio had always had feelings for Viviana. It wasn't exactly unexpected that he would go this far for her.

Once upon a time, Bianca might have taken it personally. But now, she simply replied with quiet composure, "Alright."

After all, she was leaving soon. Whether their wedding portraits were burned tonight or next week made no difference.

For a second, Vittorio froze, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He'd only said those words out of frustration, annoyed she hadn't given him a way to save face.

Wasn't she the one who used to treasure those things the most? Why's she suddenly agreeing so easily?

Without another word, Bianca called one of the household staff to take down the framed pictures from the wall. They carried them to the back courtyard and burned them until nothing remained.

Viviana, newly returned from a long stay with associates in Naples, had no place of her own yet.

So, Vittorio offered her a room in the main residence of the Barresi estate for a while.

Bianca didn't object. Her tone was even, almost indifferent. "Sure," she said.

She even instructed the house manager to prepare the guest suite next to his bedroom for Viviana, then quietly moved her own belongings into a smaller room on the ground floor of the west wing, closer to the service quarters.

As she was packing, Vittorio's voice came from behind her.

"Come on, Bianca, don't be petty. I know you're jealous, but Viviana's only staying here for a while."

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You hate sleeping alone. Moving down here, will you even rest properly?"

He hesitated, then softened his tone. "About those portraits. I went too far. If they meant something to you, we can take new ones. When there's time."

He stepped closer, reaching to hug her from behind, only for her to slip out of reach.

Turning to face him, she met his gaze. Calm. Clear.

To be fair, Vittorio had never been cruel. In the three years they'd been bound by oath and sacrament, he'd done enough to make her believe that perhaps the match had been meant to hold.

But every time Viviana reappeared, he never hesitated. He always chose her.

Bianca loved him. She really did. But what she wanted wasn't love handed out with conditions or affection that came second to someone else.

"I'm not jealous," she said quietly. "You've been dealing with Family business late into the night. Sleeping alone helps me rest better."

Her words, spoken so evenly, unsettled him more than anger would have.

Vittorio's expression hardened. He smoothed the knot of his tie until it sat too tight against his collar. He wasn't used to defiance, especially not from her. He had already lowered his pride. This was supposed to be the moment she softened, as she always had.

"Whatever," he said curtly. "By the way, what was that document you had me sign earlier today?"

Bianca's lips curved faintly. "A little gift for our third anniversary. You'll know soon enough."

That eased his temper a fraction.

He knew Bianca didn't like Viviana's presence, but Viviana had only just returned to Frostmere and he was simply helping her settle in.

Once her new apartment in the city was ready, she'd leave. He told himself that. Soon, everything would return to normal. He'd still live properly with Bianca, as duty demanded.

"Alright. It's late. You should get some rest."

When Bianca brushed past him, he instinctively lifted his arms for the usual goodnight embrace, but she walked straight by, silent as snowfall.

He stood there, the faint scent of her perfume fading down the corridor, something restless turning behind his ribs.

Something about her was different tonight. He just couldn't name it.

The night deepened. Rain started against the windows of the Barresi estate, faint and cold.

Bianca, already asleep, was yanked from her bed and dragged upstairs by two of Vittorio's soldiers.

Her shoulder slammed into the wall of Vittorio's bedroom. Pain bloomed through her ribs, the breath knocked from her lungs.

Dazed, she blinked through the haze, and then heard his voice, cold and sharp as a blade laid flat.

"I understand your jealousy, Bianca," Vittorio said, his dark eyes burning, "but drugging Viviana? That's a line even you shouldn't cross."

Her pulse spiked. "What?"

She looked up, vision swimming.

On the bed, Viviana lay trembling in Vittorio's arms. Her skin flushed crimson, her breath ragged, sweat slicking her brow. Her whole body shook as though something toxic was working through her blood.

"I didn't do it!" Bianca's voice cracked.

Viviana whimpered, clutching at Vittorio's chest. "I only drank the tea you gave me I didn't have anything else"

Bianca's eyes narrowed. "You asked for that drink! I had some too. Why am I fine, then?"

"And what would I gain from drugging you?" Her tone turned scathing. "Viviana, if you're going to frame me, at least try harder."

She was telling the truth. But truth had no power in the face of well-crafted tears.

Viviana began to sob harder, her voice weak and trembling. "Forget it. If she says I faked it, then maybe I did. I I have nothing else to say."

Bianca's hands curled into fists. Fury boiled beneath her skin, trapped and caged. It felt like punching water. No resistance, no justice.

That was the last straw for Vittorio. His voice dropped to a deadly growl.

"That's enough, Bianca! This isn't the first time you've done something like this. You know what happened three years ago."

His words dropped like a hammer.

"You really think someone with your record deserves trust?"

Just like that, one sentence condemned her.

Bianca stared at him, teeth gritted. "I'll say it again," she said in clenched teeth, each word crystal clear. "I did not drug you three years ago."

That night haunted her still. She'd gone after him when she heard he was drinking alone at a private club near the docks. Worried, she'd followed him, only to find him already drugged, barely conscious in a back room.

Yes, she loved him. Yes, one reckless night had changed everything. But she never planned it.

He had never believed her. And from that moment on, it became the wound neither of them could heal.

"Vittorio, I can't I can't help it" Viviana moaned, her fingers tightening around him. Her body trembled violently, sweat darkening the silk of the pillowcase beneath her.

Vittorio frowned, pushing her back slightly, but Viviana snatched a letter opener from the bedside drawer and dragged it across her arm.

Blood welled instantly, crimson bright under the lamplight.

"I know I'm a burden," she sobbed. "I should just disappear so you don't have to worry about me anymore"

The scent of blood hit the air like a gunshot, sharp and impossible to ignore.

Vittorio clenched his jaw, seized the blade from her hand and growled lowly, "I'll help you."

Bianca's breath caught. Her eyes widened as she stared at Vittorio, disbelief freezing her in place. She couldn't comprehend that he'd said those wordsso easily, so cruelly.

And yet, there was no hint of guilt in his eyes. The man she once shared a life with now looked at her like a judge delivering a sentence.

"You've really disappointed me, Bianca." His tone was calm, almost cold. Then his gaze shifted toward Viviana, who was curled against him like a wounded bird. "You drugged her. Whatever happens after this, it's your fault."

As his arm tightened around her, Viviana's fingers trailed idly over his chest. Her eyes flicked up to meet Bianca's, taunting, amused.

Bianca's knees trembled. She clutched the edge of the table, forcing herself to stay upright. When she finally spoke, her voice came out laced with mockery.

"You actually think I drugged her just so you"her finger shook as she pointed at him"could be the antidote?"

Her voice grew steady, sharp. "There are plenty of ways to neutralize drugs, Vittorio. This," she gestured at the scene before her, "was never one of them."

"Vittorio" Viviana's soft voice broke in, trembling just enough to sound sincere. Her nails grazed the bandaged cut on her arm, opening it slightly so a drop of red rolled down. "Don't worry about me. Let me handle this myself."

She tilted her head, her next words angled sweetly toward Bianca. "And please don't blame her. I know she didn't mean to hurt me. She just loves you too much."

Something in Bianca snapped. She'd already decided to leave Vittorio, but that didn't mean she would let Viviana disgrace her in her own home.

"My God, Viviana, do you even have any shame left? You're clinging to my husband in my house, pretending to be some innocent victim. Did your lover forget to teach you manners?"

The sound that followed was sharp and immediate. Slap!

Bianca's head snapped to the side. Her cheek stung.

"Enough, Bianca!" Vittorio roared. "Viviana hasn't spoken a single bad word about you and yet you keep spitting venom! You disgust me!"

He grabbed her wrist. She stumbled, gasping as he dragged her toward the door.

"You like drugging people, huh? Then stand here and listen to what that leads to!"

He tore the tie from his neck, bound her wrists to the doorknob and tightened the knot until metal bit into her skin.

His eyes were ice when he said, "You brought this on yourself. Don't blame me, or her."

The door slammed shut.

At first came silence. Then a sound, a soft groan. A breath. Then another. The rhythm built, unmistakable, unrelenting.

Bianca shut her eyes. Tears slipped silently at first, but eventually, even those dried up. All that was left was a hollow ache spreading through her chest.

Every moan from inside the room hammered another nail into the coffin of her love.

This is what happens when you love the wrong man, she thought bitterly.

Then pain struck deep in her abdomen. A sharp, twisting ache that sent her to her knees. The cords cut into her wrists, her body hanging from the door handle, drenched in cold sweat.

Her lips moved, but her voice came out barely a whisper. Compared to the pleasure-filled sounds beyond the door, her faint gasps were nothing, completely drowned out.

The night dragged on, each second longer than the last.

When the door finally opened, dawn light spilled in through the tall windows of the Barresi estate.

Vittorio stood there, adjusting his sleeve, his voice calm as ever. "Have you learned your lesson?"

No answer.

He frowned and looked down. Bianca lay motionless at his feet.

"Bianca?" He crouched, pressed a hand to her cheek, hot as fire. Panic flickered in his eyes.

He lifted her into his arms, about to rush out.

"Vittorio." Viviana's voice drifted lazily from the bed. "You were a bit rough last night. I think something's swollen. And I can't exactly ask anyone else to help with that, can I?"

No response.

She continued, "Bianca used to get fevers all the time back in college. Just take her to the hospital. Let the maid handle it."

Then, with a sigh, "And you know my reputation. If gossip spreads, people will talk. I can't afford that."

Bianca's lashes trembled. Her vision was blurry, her body numb, but she saw it.

She saw Vittorio hesitate.

She saw him turn.

And then she felt herself being handed off to someone else's arms.

Darkness followed.

When she opened her eyes again, everything was white. White sheets. White walls. The steady beeping of a heart monitor.

"Mrs. Barresi," the doctor said gently, "you're about three months pregnant. But the baby isn't stable. You should"

"Dr.," Bianca interrupted, her voice hoarse but firm. "I don't want the baby. Schedule the procedure."

The doctor blinked, taken aback. "There's no medical necessity to terminate"

Her next words cut him short.

"My husband cheated. We're done. That's reason enough. Please schedule it. Today."

The doctor exhaled slowly. Whatever he wanted to say, he swallowed back. "Understood. I'll make the arrangements immediately."

Once he left, Bianca reached for her phone and typed a message.

[A month's too long. Three days. Come get me in three days.]

She hit send.

Lorenzo replied within seconds. [Okay. I'll come fetch you in three days.]

Seeing his message, Bianca felt a small ease settle in her chest at last.

Her body had always been fragile, and after the cleansing procedure, she remained under Dr. Bellandi's care for three more days to regain strength.

It wasn't until the day she was discharged that Vittorio finally came to the clinic.

"Hey. I'm sorry. Viviana's been having a rough few days. Migraines so bad she can barely stand. She gets anxious whenever I'm not around," he explained.

With her back to him, Bianca continued folding the last of her things into a small overnight bag and answered flatly, "Mm."

Sensing her coldness, Vittorio stepped close and wrapped his arms around her from behind.

"What happened with the pills that time. Yes, you went too far. You crossed a line. But I've reflected too. I shouldn't have lost myself I won't let it happen again," he promised.

"I know you despise Viviana because you love me, but truly, there is nothing between us. She is only a friend. And remember, you're my wife. What is it you fear?" he pressed.

If Vittorio could have seen her face then, he would have noticed the disdain flashing in her eyes.

Friends? You sleep with her. What kind of friendship looks like that? she thought, bitter. Would it only count as "something" if Viviana carried his child?

But Bianca no longer cared. In a few weeks she would be gone for good. There was no use quarreling over things that would soon be ashes.

"What's past is past. I don't wish to speak of it." She folded the last scarf. "Aren't you here to take me home? Let's go."

Vittorio felt a strange hollow. She had not even offered him a smile.

Fine, he thought. When Viviana leaves, I'll surprise Bianca. We will begin anew. I will let the old nights be buried.

Everything of late only proved one thing clearer. Viviana is only a friend. What I feel for Bianca His gaze lingered on his wife. It is love.

He lifted her bag and guided her from the clinic.

As they reached the corridor, Dr. Bellandi approached with measured steps.

"Bianca, is this your husband? I thought"

Fearing the doctor might speak of the procedure, Bianca cut him off. "Thank you for your care. I'm recovering well now; I won't take up any more of your time." She drew Vittorio away and hurried from the building.

But no sooner had they returned to the Barresi estate than Viviana's voice rang like a bell through the marble foyer.

"Oh, Bianca, three years and you remain unchanged!" she sang mockingly.

Bianca shot her a warning glare, then turned to climb the stairs to finish packing.

Viviana's next words made her halt.

"Three years ago, I was the one who slipped something into your drink. I told you to find him at the bar. I knew Vittorio loved me, but when I left the country, who could say he wouldn't fall for another? You liked him too, so I set a small trap."

She sauntered forward, one strap of her dress deliberately hanging, the faded marks at her throat and collarbone plain to see.

"You took care of him for three years. I appreciate that sacrifice. But now I've come back. This house is mine, not yours. It's time for you to leave, Bianca."

She smiled, triumphant. Her finger drifted to the pearl at her left ear as if verifying that every word had landed exactly as designed.

"You have no family here in Frostmere Docks. Do not cross me. Take heed: leave while you still can."

Bianca's body trembled with cold fury; the revelation seared through her. So it was her plan from the start, she thought.

Without hesitation, Bianca raised her hand and struck Viviana across the face.

She fixed Viviana with a hard look. "So long as I breathe in this house, you will remain the other woman. Push me, Viviana, and none of us step away unscathed."

Viviana reeled, stunned, lips parted with outrage. Her eyes hardened as she lifted her hand to strike back, when Vittorio appeared in the doorway like a blade.

In an instant Viviana's expression shifted; her voice trembled with contrition.

"Bianca, Vittorio and I are only friends! That night was a mistake! Please! Don't tell anyone!"

In the next beat, she sank to her knees, begging, forehead nearly touching the floor. The pearl earring caught the light as her head bowed, and even now her performance was flawless.

Before Bianca could speak, Vittorio shoved her aside roughly.

Bianca, still tender from her recovery, hit the floor hard and hurt. But it was Viviana he lifted to her feet with practiced gentleness.

When he turned to Bianca again, his eyes cut like knives. "You are being absurd, Bianca! I've told you. Why will you not let this lie?" he demanded.

"If you spread rumors of that night, how will Viviana live with the shame?"

Tears rimmed Bianca's eyes. She bit her lip. "You didn't ask me what truly occurred, Vittorio. Will you believe anything she says?"

His hands balled into fists. Seeing her so fragile stirred something in him, but in the end he sided with Viviana.

"I only trust what stands before me," he declared. "Apologize to Viviana now. Swear you will not lay a hand on her again."

Bianca let out a cold, mirthless laugh, chin high with pride. "I did what any woman would. I am not the one to apologize." Her stance did not waver. "You two are the ones at fault."

Whatever conscience may have lingered in him evaporated.

He smoothed the knot of his tie until it sat too tight, and the room seemed to lose its air. Two soldiers appeared in the doorway before he even raised his voice.

"If you will not beg forgiveness, I will have them carry out the Family's discipline. Ninety-nine lashes. You will not endure them," he said, believing force would bend her will.

He thought threat would break her.

Bianca met his challenge without flinch. Her thumb pressed to the inner edge of her ring, and the trembling stopped.

"I struck her," she said, voice steady. "Because she deserved it. But I have not threatened her." Her eyes flashed. "Vittorio, if you dare lay a hand on me, even just once, you're gonna regret it for the rest of your life."

Seeing how stubborn and unyielding Bianca remained, Vittorio's expression darkened. His eyes, flat and cold, cut through the dim light of the basement room beneath the social club.

"Don't hold back," he commanded, his voice low but deadly. "Carry out the family punishment."

The enforcers, all seasoned soldiers of the Barresi Outfit, lowered their heads. Their hesitation lasted only a breath before the first blow struck the concrete floor and cracked across Bianca's back.

The leather strap, studded with thin brass rivets, bit into her flesh, tearing through her blouse like paper. A single bulb swung overhead, catching the dull gleam of the studstools kept in the back room for men who broke omert, now turned on the Boss's own wife.

"Bianca," one soldier murmured between blows, his voice trembling, "do you admit your mistake?"

Each strike echoed across the basement, heavy with ritual and cruelty. It was the punishment once reserved for traitors to the Familyninety-nine lashes, each one a message about what happened to those who defied the Don's authority.

By the thirtieth lash, the fabric of her blouse clung to her skin, soaked with her blood. The metallic scent filled the air, mingling with the damp stone and the faint chemical tang of bleach used to clean these floors after other sessions. Her body screamed for her to collapse, but Bianca refused to yield. Her prideher dignitywas all she had left.

Vittorio stood unmoving, his face a mask of cold discipline, but beneath it, something flickered. He wanted her to break, to scream, to begbecause only then could he convince himself she was still his.

But she didn't.

At the thirty-third lash, her knees buckled. Her vision blurred, the world around her shrinking into black and white blurs of light and pain. The last thing she heard before darkness took her was her own heart poundingsteady, defiant.

That night, her fever soared beyond what any doctor could explain. Her body convulsed under thin sheets, torn between agony and something deeper. They said a fever that high could stop a heart outright.

For three days, she drifted between consciousness and a darkness thick as burial dirt, where whispers of old voices echoed through her dreams.

On the third morning, she awoke to the faint ring of her phone. The screen pulsed with a nameLorenzo Valente.

"I'm three hours away," his voice said through the line, deep and steady, like an anchor in the storm.

Exhausted but determined, Bianca pushed herself upright. Every breath felt like fire, but she refused to rest any longer. She packed lightlyonly her ID and a pendant carved with the Moretti family crest, the one piece of her old life she had never surrendered.

Just as she was about to leave, another message buzzed through.

It was Giaone of her former contacts from the Moretti front operations, where Bianca had once managed the legitimate side of the business: diplomatic channels, trade logistics, relationships with allied families.

"Bianca!" Gia's voice quivered through the phone. "When are you coming back? Don Barresi let that Viviana take over your duties these past few daysshe's already ruined three arrangements! Even the Santoro family broke their alliance with us!"

Bianca closed her eyes, a humorless smile curling her lips. "He didn't blame her, did he?" she murmured, already knowing the answer.

"No! It's like he's lost his mind. He won't even listen to the capos. He snapped at everyone who tried to question her!"

The irony stung. She remembered when she had made a single mistake in her early days managing affairs for him and Vittorio had gone silent for a week. That felt like another lifetimewhen her heart still beat for him.

Her voice was steady as she replied, "Gia, I'm no longer part of the Barresi Family. You don't need to report to me again."

The silence that followed was heavy with shock. Then, slowly, Bianca ended the call.

Her decision was final.

But before she could take another step, her phone flared againthis time with a number she recognized instantly. The Commission elders.

The moment she answered, a chorus of angry voices filled the line.

"Bianca, as Vittorio's consigliere, it's your duty to correct him when he's wrong!" one of the old-guard capos barked. "You've gone missing for days! And now that woman, Viviana, has turned the whole operation upside down!"

"Do you even care about the Family's reputation anymore?" another snapped.

Their accusations struck like invisible claws, but Bianca had endured far worse. Once, she might have bowed her head and borne their scorn in silence, for the sake of love, for loyalty to her husband. But that Bianca was gone.

"You're all so dissatisfied with Vittorio, right?" she said coldly. "Then why don't you grow a spine and tell him yourselves? You're a disgrace to your titles. Snarling at me when you're too afraid to say a word to his face."

The line went dead silent. Then, one by one, the connections cut off.

Bianca stood by the window, the city's pale light washing over her. The truth was simple: the reason the Barresi Outfit had survived all these years wasn't Vittorio's leadership. It was her.

She had been the one who smoothed over his temper, repaired the broken alliances and appeased the old guard when his pride drove them away. She had done it all silently, believing that love meant sacrifice.

Now, she finally saw the cost.

She opened the hidden safe behind the study's wall, a place Vittorio never touched. Inside lay years of secrets and memories: her signed separation papers, the annulment petition sealed in a notary's envelope, her medical records from the lost child, and a small tin of ashes. Ninety-nine burned love letters.

At the very bottom was the security drive containing the villa's surveillance footage. She keyed in the passcode and the screen flickered, replaying Viviana's confession from three nights ago, how she had drugged herself and set Bianca up from the start.

Bianca copied the footage onto a second drive. "A keepsake for you, Vittorio," she murmured. "May it haunt you when you remember what you destroyed."

Outside, a town car pulled up the drive. At the same time, her phone lit up again with Vittorio's messages.

[Bianca, Viviana ruined several alliances. I need you back. I know you've always hated her, but I'll explain everything tonight.]

When she didn't respond, the tone shifted.

[Don't be childish. You're my wife and my adviser. Keep this up and I'll cut your accounts in half. You'll apologize before the capos.]

A humorless laugh escaped her lips. "Still trying to command me, even now."

She blocked every number tied to his name and deleted every contact connecting her to the Barresi network. Then she walked through the house one last time, erasing her presence room by room, like she had never existed there at all.

When she stepped outside, the black sedan awaited.

Lorenzo stood beside it, wearing a dark suit cut close at the shoulders, the Valente crest pinned to his lapel. In his hand, he held a bouquet of white tulips, their stems wrapped in silk.

The morning light filtered through the mist as he looked at her, eyes steady and soft.

"Bianca," he said quietly, "I've come to take you home."