Despair

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.

Chapter 1

Katarina De Luca POV

I stood outside the heavy oak doors of my husband's study, clutching a stack of financial reports against my chest, when the sound of a woman's laughter froze the blood in my veins.

The realization struck me with the force of a physical blow: if I opened this door, I would either die a wife or live as a widow.

The laughter wasn't soft, and it certainly wasn't polite. It was the sound of a woman who knew she had already won—a sound that threatened to strip away the title of Underboss's wife, a distinction I had worn like armor for three years.

I gripped the leather folder until my knuckles turned white.

Only hours earlier, I had woken up in the sprawling master suite of the De Luca estate. The silk sheets were cold on the other side of the bed. But that was normal.

Alessandro was a man of business, a man of violence, and I was the statue he had placed in his home to represent stability.

I had sat at my vanity, brushing my hair until it shone like spun gold. I applied my makeup with the precision of a soldier painting on war paint.

I was Katarina De Luca. I was the envy of every Capo's wife. They bowed their heads when I walked by, but I could feel their eyes crawling over my skin, searching for cracks.

They were waiting for me to break.

I had looked at the reflection in the mirror. Perfect skin. Perfect hair. Dead eyes.

My mind drifted to the day Alessandro put the ring on my finger. He had looked at me with something that resembled respect. I thought it was enough. I thought if I molded myself into the perfect mafia wife—silent, beautiful, unyielding—he would eventually look at me with warmth.

I was a fool.

To him, I was just another acquisition. A trophy to polish and put on a shelf.

My gaze dropped to the corner of the vanity. There, sitting innocently beside my imported perfumes, was a tube of lipstick. It was a cheap, drugstore brand. The plastic casing was scratched. The shade was a garish, trashy pink that I would never wear.

A chill raced down my spine.

I had pushed the thought away. A servant must have left it. Or a guest.

Now, standing in the hallway, that tube of lipstick felt like a premonition.

The laughter inside the study died down, replaced by a low, guttural groan. It was Alessandro. It was a sound I had never heard him make. Not with me.

With me, he was efficient. Silent. Cold.

I didn't knock.

I pushed the door open barely an inch.

The sight hit me harder than a bullet.