Bianca's POV
I let his words settle in the air between us like smoke from a dying cigarette. Then, without acknowledgment, I reached for another silk blouse and folded it with deliberate precision, smoothing the fabric as though it were the only thing in this room that mattered.
"Adriana needs support," Salvatore continued, his voice carrying that practiced tone of reasonableness he used when he wanted something. "It's better for her child if she's somewhere stable. You know how difficult things have been for her."
A soft, bitter sound escaped my throat before I could stop it.
Salvatore fell silent.
"Bianca." The warmth drained from his voice, replaced by something harder, colder. He was growing impatient. "Are you even listening to me?"
I turned slowly, letting my gaze meet his without flinching.
"I'm listening, Salvatore," I said, my voice flat as marble. "Do whatever you want. It's your house, after all."
His mouth fell open for a fraction of a second before his expression darkened, shadows pooling beneath his cheekbones in the dim lamplight.
"I don't like your tone, Bianca." The words came out low, a warning growl from a man unaccustomed to defiance.
I arched one eyebrow. "What tone?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about. I'm trying to be civil here, and you're making this harder than it needs to be." His voice cracked like a whip against the silence of the bedroom.
I lifted another blouse—champagne-colored silk, a gift from my father's house that now felt like a relic from another life—and folded it with care that bordered on reverence. Only when it lay perfectly in the suitcase did I turn to face him again. My expression revealed nothing. A mask carved from years of survival.
"She needs support," he pressed on, his jaw tight. "She's pregnant and alone. I'm only trying to help."
"Why, Salvatore?" The question left my lips quietly, almost gently. "Is she carrying your child?"
Salvatore went rigid.
His jaw worked silently, muscles tensing beneath the tailored fabric of his shirt. His mouth opened, then closed. For a moment, the great Don of the Pini Family had no words.
His eyes flickered toward Adriana, who stood in the doorway like a specter draped in designer mourning clothes, then back to me. "She's my cousin, Bianca." His voice pitched higher, defensive, as though I had accused him of breaking Omertà itself. "Does it have to be my child before I offer her protection?"
I allowed myself a smile—thin, bitter, sharp enough to cut. "No. But it would explain a great deal."
Salvatore's eyes turned to flint. "Why must you be so cold, Bianca?" he snapped, his composure fracturing. "I've told you countless times—there's nothing between us. Adriana is family. She has no one else but me."
I turned away from him, my hands steady as I placed the last of my garments into the leather suitcase. "You don't owe me explanations, Salvatore," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's your house. You're the Don. Do as you please."
Salvatore's breathing grew heavy, filling the space between us with barely contained fury.
"Salvatore..." Adriana stepped forward, her voice dripping with carefully manufactured concern. "Perhaps I should go. I don't want to cause any more tension. It's clear I'm not welcome here." She paused, casting a demure glance at him through lowered lashes. "Besides... she's your wife. Your Donna."
Salvatore's arm shot out, catching her elbow with possessive certainty. "You're not going anywhere," he said, his voice brooking no argument. "This is my house. You're family. I don't give a damn if she wears my ring and carries my name. If anyone doesn't belong under this roof, it's her."
The words struck like a blade between my ribs.
I flinched—just barely, just enough—before I could steel myself against the blow. But I recovered quickly, smoothing my features into the blank canvas I had perfected over three years of this marriage. They would not see me break. They would not have that satisfaction.
Then, as though he hadn't just gutted me with his words, Salvatore turned to me with a frown creasing his brow. "Where's dinner?"
I blinked. "Dinner?"
"Yes," he said slowly, as though speaking to a child. "Grilled lamb, mashed potatoes, rosemary sauce. I told you before I left for the sit-down."
"Oh, Salvatore," Adriana breathed, her hand fluttering to her chest in theatrical delight. "That's my favorite meal. You remembered."
Something twisted in my chest—a knot pulling tighter, cutting off air. My eyes burned with moisture I refused to shed.
Salvatore's face transformed, softening into a smile I hadn't seen directed at me in years. Perhaps ever. "Yes, I did. How could I forget?"
Then his attention snapped back to me, the warmth vanishing like it had never existed. "So? Where is it?"
"Oh." My voice came out hollow. "No. I didn't make it."
His eyes flashed with barely contained rage, his nostrils flaring. "Why not?"
"I was occupied today," I said, my tone deliberately flat. "Perhaps Adriana can prepare something instead. Since she'll be living here now and all."
Adriana's smug expression faltered, her painted lips pressing into a thin line.
Salvatore's face flushed crimson, his eyes blazing with the kind of fury that had made lesser men disappear into the foundations of new construction projects.
"You ungrateful, bitter little—" The words came out like venom. "Is this how pathetic you've become? You can't even manage the one thing you're good for."
I clenched my jaw until my teeth ached. My nails bit crescents into my palms. But I didn't react. I didn't give him the satisfaction.
They weren't worth my pain anymore.
Salvatore shot a glance at Adriana, then turned back to me with a sneer that twisted his handsome features into something ugly. "Forget it. Adriana, we're going out. I won't stay in this house while she's being like this. Let her figure herself out."
Adriana nodded with saccharine sweetness, slipping her manicured hand into his arm. "Perhaps it's best to give her some space, amore."
The door slammed behind them with a finality that echoed through the empty penthouse.
I stood motionless in the silence they left behind, staring at nothing as tears carved slow, silent paths down my cheeks. It was only a matter of time now. I was leaving soon. Then all of this—the humiliation, the betrayal, the slow death of everything I had once hoped for—would end.
I woke deep in the night, my throat parched and my mind restless. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed an accusatory red: 12:43 AM.
I slipped from the bed, my bare feet silent against the cold marble floors as I made my way toward the kitchen. The penthouse was dark, the city lights of the skyline casting long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Then I heard it.
Sounds drifting from the guest suite. The one Salvatore had insisted Adriana would occupy "temporarily."
I froze in the hallway, my hand pressed against the wall for support.
I knew those sounds. The rhythm of them. The meaning behind them.
Every instinct screamed at me to turn back, to return to my room and pretend I had heard nothing. But something deeper—something wounded and desperate—drove me forward. I needed to see it. I needed to watch the last ember of hope I had foolishly harbored turn to ash.
I moved like a ghost through the corridor, my footsteps making no sound on the Persian runner. The door to the guest suite wasn't fully closed. A sliver of golden light spilled into the darkness.
I leaned forward, peering through the narrow opening.
And immediately wished I hadn't.
Salvatore was on top of Adriana, their bodies tangled in silk sheets that probably cost more than most families earned in a month. Her nails raked down his back. His mouth was at her throat.
In his own house. While his wife slept down the hall.
I pulled back from the door, pressing my spine against the wall as the world tilted beneath my feet. My hand found my mouth, stifling the sound that threatened to escape—something between a sob and a scream.
This was the man I had married. The Don I had bound myself to in a church ceremony blessed by the Commission itself.
And this was how little I had ever meant to him.
