The Shattered Fiancée Returns As A Queen

Chapter 3 No.3

Word Count: 568 | Released on: Today at 17:23

a Grec

r was always locked. The security camera in the hallway was always active. For f

e lock with a hairpi

guards were at their posts, the household staff had gone home, and Vince wa

kshelves that held more ledgers than literature. A massive mahogany desk dominated the center of the room. Behi

ith the fil

he Cayman Islands, shell companies in Delaware, real estate ho

ticians. Thank-you notes from judges. A Christmas card

ion safe built into the cabinet itself. I tried the family birthday. The

ut--the one from 2011 that the Rossi family had b

e click

dated 1972. It was written in Vince's grandfather's handwriting, a neat, precise script tha

executions, documented in meticulous detail. The

olding. This ledger was a map to every unsolved murder connected to the Moretti f

Then I put the ledger bac

one buzzed. A text from Vince: *"D

with the Commission, his future wife was systematically

loop of the empty hallway, and was in bed with the ligh

melling of wine and cigar smoke.

ning in the cloud storage that only I could access. I had gone from being a b

aisle and become Carmela Moretti. Instead

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The Shattered Fiancée Returns As A Queen

Michelle Mafia

“The night before my alliance ceremony to Don Vincenzo Moretti, I discovered that my hands had been destroyed on purpose. I was in our bedroom, the heavy silence of the compound pressing against the windows, when Vince's phone buzzed on the nightstand. He was in the shower. The screen lit up with a message from Gianna Rossi: *"The cream worked perfectly. She'll never authenticate again. The Cartelli elders will have no choice but to accept me. You owe me, Vince. Don't forget what the Rossi family knows about 2011."* I read it four times. Then I took a photograph of the screen with my own phone. When Vince emerged from the bathroom, towel around his waist, I was sitting in the armchair by the window, my bandaged hands folded in my lap, my face arranged into the placid mask I had perfected over five years in this house. "Tired?" he asked, not really looking at me. "Just thinking about tomorrow," I said. My voice was steady. I had learned to make it steady. He nodded, already bored with the conversation, and turned off the light. I lay awake in the darkness beside him, cataloguing everything I knew. The offshore accounts. The FBI agents on the Moretti payroll. The body of the man who'd crossed Vince in 2013, buried under a construction site in Jersey. Five years of secrets, and I had just been given the one piece I was missing: proof that Gianna Rossi and Vincenzo Moretti had conspired to destroy me. I didn't cry. I didn't confront him. I began to plan. The burns on my hands were permanent. The Cartelli pipeline was collapsing. The Moretti family was about to cast me aside like a broken tool. But I had something they didn't know about: a photographic memory for numbers, five years of unrestricted access to Vince's private files, and a patience they had mistaken for weakness. I was the best blood diamond authenticator on the East Coast. But that was never my real talent. My real talent was surviving among predators while they mistook my stillness for submission. Tomorrow, I was supposed to become Carmela Moretti, the don's wife, the silent ornament at the head of the table. Instead, I was going to become the woman who brought down the Moretti empire from the inside. I just needed to stay alive long enough to do it.”