Bianca's POV
The black sedan cut through the night like a hearse carrying the living dead.
I sat in the back, alone, watching the city lights blur past rain-streaked windows while Don Salvatore Pini occupied the front passenger seat with Adriana DeAngelis pressed against his side. Her laughter—crystalline and deliberate—pierced the silence at intervals, each giggle a calculated blade. They spoke in low murmurs, intimate whispers that excluded me as thoroughly as if I'd been locked in the trunk.
No one observing this arrangement would have guessed I was his wife.
The Family's Social Club loomed ahead, its façade of old-world elegance masking the rot beneath. Gilded sconces flanked the entrance, casting pools of amber light across the marble steps where soldiers in tailored suits stood sentinel. This was the heart of Pini territory—a converted palazzo that served as the stage for every alliance, every betrayal, every carefully orchestrated display of power.
Tonight was the Family Gala. The Feast Night.
And I was nothing more than a ghost trailing behind the procession.
The valet opened Salvatore's door first. Adriana emerged on his arm, draped in a gown of liquid gold that caught the light like molten currency. Her fingers curled possessively around his bicep as they ascended the steps together—a portrait of criminal royalty, perfectly composed for the watching eyes.
She waved to the gathered captains and their wives with the practiced grace of a woman who believed this kingdom was already hers.
Perhaps it was.
I followed three steps behind, my presence an afterthought. The whispers began before I'd crossed the threshold.
"Isn't Bianca supposed to be his wife?"
"Why is the Don walking in with the DeAngelis woman?"
"Honestly, Bianca doesn't carry herself like a Donna. Not compared to Adriana."
My jaw tightened, but I kept my expression carved from marble. In this world, emotion was currency you couldn't afford to spend carelessly.
The main hall stretched before us—a cathedral of excess. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto tables laden with silver and bone china. The old guard occupied their positions of honor near the raised dais, their weathered faces betraying nothing as they observed Salvatore parade Adriana past them like a prize mare.
He introduced her to the Commission elders with evident pride. His hand found the small of her back, guiding her forward with the proprietary touch that should have been reserved for his wife alone.
"Consigliere Benedetto," Salvatore said smoothly, "you remember Adriana. She's been invaluable to the family's... medical interests."
The old man's eyes flickered to me—a brief acknowledgment—before returning to Adriana with carefully neutral assessment.
Then came the moment that sealed everything.
Every Feast Night, tradition demanded the Don lead his Donna in the opening dance. It was more than ceremony—it was a declaration. A statement to the Commission, to the soldiers, to every watching eye that this woman held his protection, his name, his blood oath.
I stood at the edge of the dance floor, waiting.
Salvatore's gaze found mine across the polished marble. For one breath, I thought—
Adriana's fingers slid into his palm.
"Dance with me, Salvatore." Her voice carried just far enough to reach the nearby tables, pitched with theatrical vulnerability. "Forgive me for asking. I simply... I don't want to feel so alone tonight."
Her eyes glistened with manufactured sorrow.
Salvatore hesitated for precisely one heartbeat. Then he nodded without sparing me another glance.
And just like that, he led her to the center of the floor as the string quartet began their slow, ceremonial waltz. Her palm pressed flat against his chest—over his heart, where the old tattoo marked him as a made man. He held her with the careful reverence of a man cradling something precious.
My heart didn't break.
It had shattered so many times before that only dust remained.
What I felt now was shame. Pure, crystalline shame that burned through my veins like acid.
The gathered Family watched. Whispers slithered through the crowd like serpents.
I stood there—an abandoned ornament, a discarded relic—while another woman claimed what the blood oath had promised was mine. The Donna of the Pini Family, left to rot in the shadows while her husband's comare commanded the light.
Adriana tilted her head, resting it against Salvatore's shoulder with the easy intimacy of a lover who knew she'd already won.
Someone near me murmured, "She suits him better. Everyone can see it."
I didn't flinch.
When the music faded, applause rippled through the hall. Salvatore inclined his head toward Adriana with something approaching warmth. She smiled—victorious, radiant, poisonous.
Then, finally, he turned.
He crossed the distance between us with measured steps, his hand extending toward me like an afterthought.
"Bianca." His voice was flat, perfunctory. "Our dance."
I looked at his outstretched hand. The same hand that had held Adriana moments ago as though she were his everything. The same hand that had signed away my children to his black-clinic butchers.
Silence descended over the nearby tables. The old guard watched. The soldiers watched. Everyone waited for me to perform my role.
I smiled—cold as cemetery stone.
"No, thank you."
Surprise fractured his composed mask. His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Excuse me?"
"I said no." My voice emerged steady, controlled. Calm as the eye of a hurricane.
His expression hardened into something brutal. When he spoke again, his tone had dropped to a lethal register. "Bianca. Don't make a scene."
"You started it." The words left my lips wrapped in bitter silk.
Salvatore's composure cracked. He stepped closer, his voice a serpent's hiss meant only for my ears. "Why must you be so jealous? It was one dance. I didn't want her to feel excluded. Must everything revolve around your wounded pride?"
I met his gaze without flinching. "You didn't want her to feel left out. But you have no concern for humiliating your own wife before the entire Commission."
His lip curled. "You should be grateful you have a husband at all, you ungrateful—"
"Please." Adriana materialized at his elbow, her voice dripping with false concern. "Don't quarrel on my account. I never meant to cause trouble."
I turned my stare on her—let her see the cold fury I'd learned to cultivate in the three years of this marriage.
"Stop performing," I said flatly. "It's tiresome."
She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest as though I'd struck her. But I was already turning away, ignoring the scandalized murmurs that followed my retreat.
I pushed through the nearest door and found myself in the powder room—a sanctuary of black marble and gilt mirrors. I needed air. Space. A moment to stop pretending the cracks weren't spreading through my foundation.
I slipped into one of the private stalls and sat on the velvet bench, pressing my palms against my eyes until stars bloomed in the darkness.
Breathe, I commanded myself. Just breathe.
The door opened. Heels clicked against marble. Two voices, carrying with the careless confidence of women who believed themselves alone.
"Did you see how she just stood there? Like some servant girl."
I went rigid.
The second woman sighed with theatrical sympathy. "Poor creature. But honestly, what did she expect? Don Salvatore clearly doesn't want her. Everyone knows."
"I heard she practically begged for the marriage. Threw herself at him like some desperate fool."
Cruel laughter echoed off the marble walls. "It makes sense, doesn't it? Look at Adriana—she's radiant. No man in his right mind would choose Bianca over her. Not for a wife. Not for anything."
I rose from the bench.
The stall door swung open beneath my palm. I emerged into the powder room with the silent grace of a woman who had learned to move through hostile territory without making a sound.
The two women—wives of minor captains, I recognized them now—went pale as corpses.
"Donna Bianca—"
"Good evening, Donna—"
They didn't wait for my response. They fled, averting their eyes like children caught in transgression, their heels clattering against the floor in their haste to escape.
I stood alone before the mirror.
My reflection stared back—hollow-eyed, pale, draped in a black gown that suddenly felt like mourning clothes. The woman in the glass looked like someone who had been slowly poisoned over three years. Someone whose blood had been drained drop by drop until only the shell remained.
Maybe they're right, the reflection seemed to whisper. Maybe you were never meant to survive this world.
I inhaled sharply, forcing steel into my spine. I would return to that hall. I would endure the rest of this hellish evening. I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.
The door creaked open behind me.
I turned, expecting another pair of gossiping wives.
Adriana DeAngelis stood in the doorway, her gold gown catching the light like dragon scales. Her lips curved into a slow, predatory smile.
"Well," she purred, stepping inside and letting the door fall shut behind her. "You look like shit, Donna."
