Tangye Wanzi

I watched my husband, the most feared Capo in New York, sign away our marriage with the same cold indifference he usually reserved for ordering a hit. The nib of his Montblanc pen scratched against the paper, drowning out the rain hitting the coffee shop window. He didn't bother to read a single word. He thought he was signing routine shipping manifests for the family business. In reality, he was signing the "Dissolution of Union" papers I had hidden beneath the cover sheet. He was too distracted to check. His eyes were glued to his encrypted phone, frantically texting Sofia—the widow, the tragic beauty, the woman who had haunted our marriage for three years. "Done," he grunted, tossing the stack into his armored SUV without even glancing at me. "Business is concluded, Elena. We leave." Moments later, his phone rang with her special emergency tone. His demeanor shifted from cold boss to frantic protector instantly. "Driver, divert. She needs me," he roared. He looked at me with zero affection and ordered, "Get out, Elena. Luca will take you home." He kicked me out of the car into the pouring rain to rush to his mistress, completely unaware he had just legally granted me my freedom. I stood on the curb, shivering but smiling for the first time in years. By the time the Don realizes he just signed his own divorce, I will be a ghost in San Francisco. And he will have nothing left but his shipping logs and his regret.

I thought I was waking up in the arms of Arthur, the man I loved. But as the morning light hit the Hamptons estate, the man buttoning his cuffs by the window turned around with eyes like chips of ice. It was Augustus Riddle, Arthur’s cruel younger brother, and I had just spent the night whispering confessions of love into the wrong man's ear. The night I thought was a beautiful beginning turned into a devastating nightmare. Instead of comfort, Gus treated me like a stain on his expensive carpet, scribbling a check for "services rendered" before shoving me into a dark service corridor to hide my existence from his brother. "How much does it cost to buy your silence?" He sneered, before leaving me barefoot in a torrential downpour while he drove away in a luxury Cadillac. Four years later, I am a struggling actress in Los Angeles, working double shifts as a barista just to keep the lights on. My life was finally stable until my roommate dragged me to a high-end dinner to meet her new "influential" boyfriend. The man sitting at the table, looking more arrogant and lethal than ever, was Augustus. He spent the entire night humiliating me, calling me a pathetic amateur and a social climber in front of my only friends. When I fled into the rain and collapsed on the sidewalk, skinning my knee until I bled, he watched from his car. He saw me clutching a plastic baggie containing the taped-together pieces of that four-year-old check—the only proof of my shame. He looked at me like roadkill, rolled up his window, and drove off into the dark. I couldn't understand why he was doing this. Why did he hate me enough to crush me, yet remember that I couldn't handle the smell of cigarette smoke? Why did he leave me bleeding in the street, only to send expensive medical supplies and coffee to my door the very next morning? "I'm moving out." I told my roommates, realizing that Gus Riddle didn't just want to destroy me; he wanted to haunt me. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out with eighty dollars to my name, finally ready to disappear into the city before he could burn the rest of my life to the ground.

I stood on the tarmac clutching white magnolias, watching the man I loved hand his loyalty to the woman born to destroy me. Dante Cavallaro, the Ruthless Underboss, didn't just leave me for Sofia Moretti. He revealed that for two years, I wasn't his lover. I was a human shield. The heavy iron bangle he forced me to wear wasn't a gift for my protection. "It's a Malocchio anchor," he sneered as I lay paralyzed on the floor. "It drains the wearer's luck to keep Sofia healthy. You are just the filter." My body began to rot from the inside out, my nerves dying one by one. When I was finally on my deathbed, unable to move or speak, Dante didn't cry for me. He cried because his tool was broken. He forced the cursed bangle onto his own wrist, begging the universe to keep me alive so I could continue to suffer in Sofia's place. "Please," he sobbed into my sheets. "Don't leave me alone with the bad luck." I used my last breath to make a wish—not for him, but for my freedom. I closed my eyes and died. Exactly one hour later, Dante's phone rang. It was his father. "Sofia just collapsed," he said. "Her heart just stopped." I was the vessel. And now that I was gone, the poison had come home to the King.

I was smoothing the red silk of my dress over a baby bump only I knew existed, preparing to tell my husband, the ruthless King of Chicago, that he was finally going to be a father. But before I could share the news, the ballroom fell silent. A woman walked in wearing a gold dress that was barely legal. It was Serena, the woman from the photos I had received just hours ago. She walked right up to us and handed Michael a silver tie clip. "You left this in the suite, Michael," she purred in front of the entire city's elite. When I demanded she leave, she smirked and threw her glass of red wine all over me. The liquid soaked into my dress, looking like a gunshot wound right over my womb. I waited for Michael to defend me. To throw her out. Instead, he looked at the crowd, terrified of a scandal. "Don't make a scene, Liv," he hissed, his eyes cold. "Go upstairs and change. I'll handle this." He turned his back on me and walked away with his mistress, leaving me dripping in crimson and humiliation. My mother found me sobbing in the bedroom and slapped me sober. "Tears are for the weak," she said. "Tonight, Michael Thorne loses everything." We froze his assets. We destroyed his reputation. But that wasn't enough. I wanted to break his soul. I looked down at my stomach. I would protect this child, but his father would never know he existed. "Tell him I lost the baby," I whispered to the butler, my voice trembling with rage. "Tell him the stress caused a miscarriage. Tell him he killed his heir." Tonight, the golden cage opens. And Michael Thorne is about to find out that even a canary has claws.

Two minutes before midnight on the eve of my wedding, my phone buzzed. I expected a sweet text from my groom, Liam. Instead, I received a photo of him with his lips inches from another woman's neck. The caption read: "He's celebrating his last night of freedom. Are you sure you want to be the jailer?" I didn't scream. I didn't cancel the wedding. I walked down the aisle the next morning and looked at his handsome face. I saw the scratch on his wrist—a souvenir from his mistress, Ava. Later, I overheard him tell his best man that I was just the "safe bet," a boring broodmare to provide an heir while he had fun with her. He thought I was a naive girl who believed in fairy tales. He thought he had secured his perfect life when I said, "I do." But he was wrong. When I discovered I was pregnant a few days later, I didn't celebrate. I realized this baby wasn't a blessing; it was a lock on my cage. Liam wanted a dynasty? He wanted a legacy? I looked at the positive test in my hand and made a cold, hard choice. I wasn't going to just leave him. I was going to destroy him. I wiped my tears, packed my documents, and prepared to burn his entire world to ash. The war had just begun.

The wedding dress, a Parisian dream, hung ready. My guardian, Daniel Hayes, the man stepping into the role of my husband in three weeks, surveyed me with possessive eyes. Everything was perfect, almost too perfect for the girl who lost her parents and world in a fire, only to be taken in by a generous "uncle." Then, his phone buzzed. A name popped up: "Sarah." And beneath it, a picture of a smiling woman and a small boy grinning at the camera, with a message: "Kev and I are waiting. Don't be late." My perfectly constructed world began to crack. He admitted it-Sarah was his fiancée ten years ago, before she left him. I was merely a "substitute," a convenient look-alike to fill the void she left. His affection, his care, our shared love-all a calculated lie. Then, an anonymous email confirmed my worst fears: he was still seeing her, even now, on the eve of our wedding. "You're a monster," I told him, tears streaming down my face. He just stared, unmoved, his voice like ice: "The wedding will go on as planned, Olivia. You will not embarrass me." He wanted me to be a dutiful wife, a pawn in his twisted game. The pre-wedding gala was a public humiliation. Sarah appeared, triumphant, with her son. Daniel, caught between us, didn't defend me. He paraded me before the woman he truly desired. It wasn't just betrayal; it was torture. And then came the ultimate blow: he hit me, in front of them, leading to the devastating loss of our unborn child. Lying in the hospital, my heart hollow, I let him believe his feigned remorse. He wanted to "make it right," to "send them away." He thought he still had me, the forgiving, wounded woman. But the girl who loved him had died in that studio, with our child. A new plan, cold and sharp, began to form in the hollow space where my heart used to be.

Six years. That' s how long it had been since Mark Johnson chose to walk away, leaving me to face my family' s ruin alone. Now he stood in my apartment, polished and powerful, fully expecting to find me broken and waiting for him. Instead, I was sprawled on a worn sofa, cradling my sleeping baby, Liam. Mark' s perfectly sculpted face twisted in disbelief, then disgust, as he laid eyes on my son. "Whose is that?" he spat, then, eyeing my faded clothes and humble home, added, "I mean, who' s the father? Have you no shame?" He offered to take me back as his mistress and "find a good family" for Liam, as if my child were dispensable cargo. Then he grabbed my arm, revealing an ugly, jagged scar on my forearm-a relic from the "halfway house" he' d sent me to. Chloe, my stepsister, ever the innocent puppet master, smoothly deflected his concern, painting me as a reckless delinquent. It worked. Any flicker of understanding in Mark' s eyes hardened into contempt. "You' ve become something ugly, Ava," he told me, letting go as if I were contaminating. I knew he wasn' t disappointed in himself, only in me for not suffering prettily. He lunged for my throat, then for Liam, snarling that my son's absence might "make me see reason." Just as despair choked me, the door crashed open. "Get your hands off of them." Jake Stone, my friend, my partner, my savior, stepped into the room, his presence a shield. He took Liam, comforting him before turning to Mark, his voice calm but lethal. "I'm the man who's here now," he stated. "And I'm telling you to get out." I stood beside Jake, tears drying, my voice clear. "You left me to rot for six years. Jake was the one who pulled me from the wreckage. He' s more of a man than you will ever be."

The shovel struck the dirt above me. A dull, wet thud. It was my grave, and I was floating above it, watching. My ex-girlfriend, Ava, was there, livestreaming to thousands. "We're doing this for Liam," she announced, her voice tight with artificial conviction. Beside her, my former best friend, Liam Davis, grunted, driving the shovel deeper. He was performing, for Ava, for the camera, for the lies he' d spun for five years about me haunting him. Then, he unearthed my pine coffin. The crowbar pried it open, revealing the horrific claw marks-my claw marks-inside the lid. But also, my diary. Ava, pale and trembling, pulled it from the mud. She began to read my words, words that told of my love for her, of Liam's escalating cruelty, not mine. Yet, she still clung to his narrative, selectively reading to justify her actions. He' d almost poisoned me. He tried to murder me. The truth, stark and undeniable, spilled from the pages. Then, my mother arrived. She didn't just expose Liam's lies about an old fight; she revealed a truth that shattered Ava' s world: I was going to donate my kidney to save her life. The man she' d desecrated, the monster she' d paraded online, was her silent savior. Struck by a blinding guilt, Ava unearthed the diary's final, blood-stained entry. My last words. "Ava. Liam did this. I love yo-" Unfinished. The truth was absolute: Liam had not only framed me, he had buried me alive. A raw scream tore from Ava' s throat. The tears that followed were years too late, but they ignited a terrifying purpose. She would make him pay.

My relationship with Liam was a twenty-year slow burn, a homecoming everyone called perfect and meant to be. Then, scrolling through my phone one Tuesday night, an anonymous post on a local gossip forum shattered that illusion. It was a gushing narrative from a girl named Olivia, detailing secret meetings and gifts from a business school charmer-the same limited-edition sneakers I' d seen Liam coveting, the ones he told me were sold out. Beneath it, a comment read, "He even lied to his clingy childhood friend 'girlfriend' that they were sold out just so he could surprise me. He says he\'s only with her because his parents like her." Clingy childhood friend. The words felt like a punch, blurring my vision. My heart raced as I dialed Liam, his warm greeting a stark contrast to the betrayal I' d uncovered. He lied about the sneakers, easily, poorly, confirming my worst fears. His flimsy denial crumbled when I confronted him with Olivia' s account, his "nervous edge" a stark contrast to my unwavering fury. My best friend Maya' s warning echoed: "I don\'t trust him, Chloe. The way he was looking at her... it wasn\'t friendly." How stupid I felt for defending him. Then, the final blow: Olivia' s public profile, a cascade of photos-his hand in hers, his familiar smile reserved for her, captioned "My one and only. Soon the whole world will know." Posted just an hour ago. The heartbreak was physical, but beneath it, a cold, sharp anger stirred. This wasn't a misunderstanding; it was a cruel, deliberate deception. I hung up, no more lies needed, meeting my own clear gaze in the dark phone screen. I was no longer just a heartbroken girl; I was a girl who had been played for a fool, and I would not let him get away with it.

The "True Harmony" system was perfect, a monument to the future I, Ethan Miller, was eager to build with Chloe, my fiancée of a decade. Our wedding, a meticulously planned extravagance, was just one week away, a celebration of the life we'd spent years creating. Then, she walked into my study, and in a soft, flat voice, delivered words that detonated my entire world: "I can't marry you next week. I have to marry Liam first." Liam. Her stepbrother. The man she confusingly called her "first love," now demanding she fulfill his deceased mother's "dying wish" for her to settle him. My shock curdled as she explained it was "just a formality" – she'd marry him, then divorce him, for "filial piety." My life, our future, reduced to a mere inconvenience. The insult deepened when she asked for a "dowry" – a few million dollars for Liam. I was not her partner; I was her bank, and Liam, the beneficiary. When her fabricated apologies came, they were delivered with Liam's leftovers, the subtle taunt a final blow. What was this absurd wish, this sudden, desperate need that obliterated our years together? How could the woman I loved so easily betray and humiliate me for a man who seemed to be nothing but a perpetual burden? My initial shock hardened into cold resolve. If Chloe, the supposed woman of my dreams, prioritized a con artist over me, then my answer was simple: "I need a new bride."

Savannah stood at my desk, her smile unsettlingly bright, holding a tiny antique bottle. "For you, Chloe," she purred, her voice dripping with fake sweetness, "a special family recipe for good fortune." But a chill ran down my spine the moment I saw it. The bottle. The smell. The lie. It all came flooding back with agonizing clarity. I remembered the grotesque rash, worse than any psoriasis, erupting across my skin. It was red, raw, and it smelled like rotting meat, coarse black hair sprouting from inflamed patches. Doctors were confused, their creams useless. My own reflection became a monster. Ethan, my boyfriend and boss, looked at me with disgust before abandoning me for good. I was fired from the job I loved, my career turning to ash. I died alone in my apartment, ostracized and broken, the foul reek of my own decaying flesh my final breath. Then I remembered the truth I learned after death: It wasn't a disease. It was a vicious Hoodoo curse, a 'crossing' fed by that very essential oil. A "gift" from my best friend, Savannah. She wanted my job, my beauty, my entire life. And she took it all. But now, I was back. My skin was clear, my body whole. I had a second chance. And this time, she wouldn't win.

Victoria Hayes, heiress of the New York Hayes family, was poised to marry Ethan Miller. For four years, I' d meticulously molded him from a broke university kid into a successful entrepreneur. He was my creation, meant to be a living echo of Julian Vance, my first love, tragically lost. But on the eve of our wedding, a chilling overheard conversation shattered my perfectly constructed world. I discovered Ethan, his pathologically obsessive ex Chloe, and even his family, were plotting my public humiliation at the altar. His whispered "Alright. I'll do it" twisted my stomach, revealing the man I' d idealized was a cheap, cruel fake. He later abandoned me during a fire alarm, grabbing Chloe first, leaving me trampled and injured. I overheard him confess he "despised" me, viewing me only as a controlling ATM. The agonizing pain wasn't for him, but for my wasted years and his utter contempt. How could I have been so foolish, investing so much in such a calculating fraud? I wasn't a victim; I was furious, utterly betrayed, and finally, free. My illusion shattered, my resolve hardened, and I calmly called my mother: "Cancel the wedding. I'm coming to London." Tomorrow, I' d depart, not as a jilted bride, but as the architect of his public downfall. My path now clear, I was ready for a new life unfettered by shadows or substitutes.

I'm Anya, and I see ghosts-a family gift that's always been a curse, until I found fragile peace at Serenity Glen, learning to manage my powers and appease the vengeful ghost, the Lady in Gray, who was finally nearing her eternal rest. That fragile peace shattered the day I saved tech mogul Ethan Cole from death, exacting a vow of unwavering loyalty only for him to spend seven years flaunting an affair and dismissing me as "too mystical." His betrayal escalated into a calculated torment: desecrating my home, stealing my protective amulet, orchestrating the demolition of Serenity Glen-my sanctuary-and even murdering my mentor, Elijah, all while forcing me into torturous blood transfusions for his mistress and secretly planning to abort my unborn child. My world crumbled as I learned his "near-death" was a setup from the start, a manipulative ploy to exploit my spiritual connections, and Elijah's death wasn't an accident but planned murder, leaving me reeling from a betrayal so profound it defied comprehension. As his mistress, Tiffany, revealed his full deceit and then spitefully destroyed my last sacred defense-my moonstone pendant-a primal rage erupted within me, unleashing a force far older and more vengeful than I could control, ensuring that the price of Ethan's betrayal would finally be paid.

"Voices." That’s how I found Ethan a year ago, online, his deep, calm tones a warm blanket over my introverted self. Today, after months of online chats, my boyfriend was finally coming to meet me in person. My stomach churned with a nervous, hopeful excitement. But then, as if a glitch in my reality, a transparent social media feed flickered into my vision, comments scrolling relentlessly. "LOL, 'vet him.' She means 'steal him.'" "Main Character Brit about to secure the love interest! Sarah who?" They were mocking me, predicting my popular, effortlessly charming roommate, Brit, would steal Ethan. "Girl, this ain't a hallucination. This is the script. You're watching your life's reality show." My excitement shattered. Brit, always the queen to my lady-in-waiting, played her part perfectly, offering syrupy "concern" to check out my "online guy," later even faking an ankle injury just to get Ethan alone. Each comment from "The Feed," each calculated move from Brit, amplified my deepest fear: I was just an average side character, destined to be replaced. Was this my inevitable fate? To watch my love story unfold as a footnote in someone else’s drama? The injustice of it all, this pre-written "script" I was supposed to follow, sparked a cold, determined anger deep within me. No. This was *my* life. And I refused to be a stepping stone. I would not be the loser side character. I would fight for him, fighting back with every clever text, every subtle move to reclaim control, even a strategic lie, to ensure I wrote my own script.

As an outcome of a conspiracy, Stacie was forced to marry Andrew. On their wedding night, her husband warned her to never reveal their marriage to the world. At home, they would be a couple, but in public, they would be complete strangers. Thus, she ended up becoming his secret wife. Any time she was in trouble, he would stand up for her and protect her, which warmed her heart. And just when she started to think that he loved her, he destroyed her fantasy. When news about their marriage came out accidentally, he mercilessly handed her the divorce agreement. At that moment, she knew. She knew that he had married her for her hundred billion legacies.

My marriage to Joshua Caldwell was a prison sentence. I was a Hartman trophy, sold to the powerful family who had destroyed mine. Then I discovered he was cheating. His mistress was pregnant with the child he denied me, and he was stealing my secret song lyrics to build her career. When I confronted him, he called me a spineless liability and threatened to destroy what was left of my family. To make matters worse, a one-night stand with a stranger turned out to be with my husband's brother, Anthony Caldwell-the Don of the city. He knew all of Joshua's secrets and used them to trap me in a twisted game, seeing me as nothing more than an asset. They both thought I was a broken doll they could control. I wrote a song for his mistress, a beautiful execution with a single, impossible note I knew would destroy her voice. She sang it, and now her career is over. Now the Don has summoned me to Chicago, not knowing the woman he thinks is his asset is the one who just burned his brother's world to the ground.

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

For four years, I traced the bullet scar on Chace’s chest, believing it was proof he would bleed to keep me safe. On our anniversary, he told me to wear white because "tonight changes everything." I walked into the gala thinking I was getting a ring. Instead, I stood frozen in the center of the ballroom, drowning in silk, watching him slide his mother's sapphire onto another woman's finger. Karyn Warren. The daughter of a rival family. When I begged him with my eyes to claim me, to save me from the public humiliation, he didn't flinch. He just leaned toward his Underboss, his voice amplified by the silence. "Karyn is for power. Ember is for pleasure. Don't confuse the assets." My heart didn't just break; it incinerated. He expected me to stay as his mistress, threatening to dig up my dead mother’s grave if I refused to play the obedient pet. He thought I was trapped. He thought I had nowhere to go because of my father’s massive gambling debts. He was wrong. With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and texted the one name I was never supposed to use. Keith Mosley. The Don. The monster under Chace's bed. *I am invoking the Blood Oath. My father’s debt. I am ready to pay it.* His reply came three seconds later, buzzing against my palm like a warning. *The price is marriage. You belong to me. Yes or No?* I looked up at Chace, who was laughing with his new fiancée, thinking he owned me. I looked down and typed three letters. *Yes.*

I'm a moaning mess as Antonio slams into me from behind. His hips hit me hard, and each deep thrust sends shockwaves through my body. My breasts bounce with every movement, my eyes roll back, and I moan his name without control. The pleasure he gives me is overwhelming-I can't hold it in. I feel my walls tighten around his thick length. The pressure builds fast, and then- I explode around him, my orgasm tearing through me. He groans loud and deep as he releases inside me, his hot seed spilling into me in thick pulses. Just when I think he's done, his grip shifts. He turns me over and lays me flat on the bed. His dark eyes stare into mine for a moment, filled with raw hunger. I glance down- He's still hard. Before I can react, he grabs my wrists, pins me down, and pushes himself inside me again. He fills me completely. My hips rise on instinct, meeting his rhythm. Our bodies move together, locked in a wild, uncontrollable dance. "You're fucking sweet," he groans, his voice rough and breathless. "I can't get enough of you... not after that night, Sol," he growls, slamming into me harder. The force of his words and his thrusts make my body shake. "Come for me," he commands, his voice low and full of heat. And just like that, my body trembles. Waves of pleasure crash over me. I cry out, shaking with the force of my orgasm. "Mine," he growls again, louder this time. His voice is feral, wild, like a beast claiming what belongs to him. The sound sends a shiver down my spine. *** Solene was betrayed, humiliated, and erased by Rowan Brook, the man she once called husband, Solene is left with nothing but her name and a burning hunger for revenge. She turns to the one man powerful enough to destroy the Brooks family from within: Rowan's estranged and dangerous uncle, Antonio Rodriguez. He's ruthless. A playboy who never sleeps with the same woman twice. But when Solene walks into his world, he doesn't just break the rules, he creates new ones just for her. What begins as a calculated game quickly spirals into obsession, power plays, and secrets too deadly to stay buried. Because Solene isn't just anyone's ex... she's the woman they should've never underestimated. Can she survive the price of revenge? Or will her heart become the next casualty? And when the truth comes out, will Antonio still choose her... or destroy her?

On my wedding day, my father sold me to the Chicago Outfit to pay his debts. I was supposed to marry Alex Moreno, the heir to the city's most powerful crime family. But he couldn't even be bothered to show up. As I stood alone at the altar, humiliated, my best friend delivered the final blow. Alex hadn't just stood me up; he had run off to California with his mistress. The whispers in the cathedral turned me into a joke. I was damaged goods, the rejected bride. His family knew the whole time and let me take the public fall, offering me his cousins as pathetic replacements-a brute who hated me or a coward who couldn't protect me. The humiliation burned away my fear, leaving only cold rage. My life was already over, so I decided to set the whole game on fire myself. The marriage pact only said a Carlson had to marry a Moreno; it never said which one. With nothing left to lose, I looked past the pathetic boys they offered. I chose the one man they never expected. I chose his father, the Don himself.

I stood outside my husband's study, the perfect mafia wife, only to hear him mocking me as an "ice sculpture" while he entertained his mistress, Aria. But the betrayal went deeper than infidelity. A week later, my saddle snapped mid-jump, leaving me with a shattered leg. Lying in the hospital bed, I overheard the conversation that killed the last of my love. My husband, Alessandro, knew Aria had sabotaged my gear. He knew she could have killed me. Yet, he told his men to let it go. He called my near-death experience a "lesson" because I had bruised his mistress's ego. He humiliated me publicly, freezing my accounts to buy family heirlooms for her. He stood by while she threatened to leak our private tapes to the press. He destroyed my dignity to play the hero for a woman he thought was a helpless orphan. He had no idea she was a fraud. He didn't know I had installed micro-cameras throughout the estate while he was busy pampering her. He didn't know I had hours of footage showing his "innocent" Aria sleeping with his guards, his rivals, and even his staff, laughing about how easy he was to manipulate. At the annual charity gala, in front of the entire crime family, Alessandro demanded I apologize to her. I didn't beg. I didn't cry. I simply connected my drive to the main projector and pressed play.

I was three days away from marrying the Underboss of the Fazio crime family when I unlocked his burner phone. The screen glowed toxic bright in the dark next to my sleeping fiancé. A message from a contact saved as 'Little Trouble' read: "She is just a statue, Dante. Come back to bed." Attached was a photo of a woman lying in the sheets of his private office, wearing his shirt. My heart didn't break; it simply stopped. For eight years, I believed Dante was the hero who pulled me from a burning opera house. I played the perfect, loyal Mafia Princess for him. But heroes don't give their mistresses rare pink diamonds while giving their fiancées cubic zirconia replicas. He didn't just cheat. He humiliated me. He defended his mistress over his own soldiers in public. He even abandoned me on the side of the road on my birthday because she faked a pregnancy emergency. He thought I was weak. He thought I would accept the fake ring and the disrespect because I was just a political pawn. He was wrong. I didn't cry. Tears are for women who have options. I had a strategy. I walked into the bathroom and dialed a number I hadn't dared to call in a decade. "Speak," a voice like gravel growled on the other end. Lorenzo Moretti. The Capo of the rival family. The man my father called the Devil. "The wedding is off," I whispered, staring at my reflection. "I want an alliance with you, Enzo. And I want the Fazio family burned to the ground."

I went to the family lawyer for a routine travel clearance. Instead, I was handed a divorce decree. The ink was three years old. While I had been playing the role of the dutiful Capo's wife, Dante had secretly divorced me the day after our fifth anniversary. Twenty-four hours later, he legally married the nanny, Gia, and named her cruel-eyed son as his heir. I returned home to confront him, only for the boy to throw boiling tomato soup on me. Dante didn't check my burns. He cradled the boy and looked at me with pure, drug-fueled hatred, calling me a monster for upsetting his "son." The final blow came in a parking garage. A car sped toward us. Dante didn't pull me to safety. He shoved me into the vehicle's path, using my body as a human shield to protect his mistress. Lying broken on the asphalt, I realized Aria Vitiello was already dead to him. So, I decided to make it official. I arranged a private flight over the Atlantic and ensured there were no survivors. By the time Dante was weeping over the wreckage, realizing too late that he had been poisoned against me, I was already in France. The Canary was dead. The Reaper had risen.

My husband, the Outfit’s most feared Consigliere, stood up and buttoned his suit jacket. He had just convinced a jury that Sofia Moretti was innocent. But we both knew the truth: Sofia had poisoned my mother over a spilled martini on her Valentino dress. Instead of comforting me, Dante looked at me with cold, dead eyes. "If you make a scene," he whispered, gripping my arm until it bruised, "I will bury you in a psychiatric ward so deep even God won't find you." To protect the Family alliance, he sacrificed his wife. When I tried to fight back, he drugged me at a gala. He let a private investigator take photos of me, naked and unconscious, just to have leverage to keep me silent. He paraded Sofia around our penthouse, letting her wear my dead mother’s shawl while I was banished to the staff quarters. He thought he had broken me. He thought I was just a nurse’s daughter he could manage. But he made a fatal error. He didn't read the "committal forms" I handed him to sign. They were divorce papers, transferring his assets to me. And the night of the yacht party, while he toasted to his victory with my mother's killer, I left my wedding ring on the deck. I didn't jump to die. I jumped to be reborn. And when I resurfaced, I made sure Dante Russo burned for every sin.

I was the Chicago Outfit's princess, and Luca and Matteo were my sworn protectors. We had mixed our blood at ten years old, promising that nothing would ever touch me. But that oath turned to ash the night Sofia Ricci aimed a Roman candle at my chest. The firework slammed into my shoulder, igniting my silk dress instantly. As I rolled on the concrete, screaming while the flames ate into my skin, I waited for my boys to save me. They didn't. Instead, I watched through the smoke as they rushed to Sofia. They wrapped their jackets—the ones meant to shield me—around the girl who had just set me on fire, comforting her because the "kickback" had scared her. They let me burn to keep her warm. When I woke up in the hospital with permanent scars, they brought me a letter of apology from her and defended her "accident." They even cut their palms to pay her debt, ignoring the fact that I was the one in bandages. That was the moment Elena Vitiello died. I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I simply packed my bags and defected to the one place they couldn't follow: the arms of Dante Moretti, the lethal Capo of New York. By the time they realized their mistake and came crawling back to beg in the rain, I was already wearing another man's ring. "You want forgiveness?" I asked, looking down at them. "Burn for it."