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 studs—tools kept in the back room for men who broke omertà, 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 Family—ninety-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 pride—her dignity—was 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 beg—because 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 pounding—steady, 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 name—Lorenzo 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 lightly—only 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 Gia—one 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 days—she'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 lifetime—when 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 again—this time with a number she recognized instantly. The Commission elders.
