Seraphina POV
The ballroom smelled of cloying lilies and fear.
It was the annual Gala, the one night where the blood was washed off the hands of our syndicate and hidden under pristine silk gloves. I stood by Dante's side, playing the part of the perfect Donna.
He had his hand on the small of my back, a proprietary claim that used to make me feel safe. Once, his touch had been a shield; now, it felt like a brand seared into my flesh.
"You look beautiful tonight, Tesoro," he murmured against my ear.
His voice was low, rough-the sound of velvet dragged over gravel. It was the same voice he used to order executions.
"Thank you, Dante," I said.
I didn't look at him. If I looked at him, I knew I would retch right there on the polished marble.
And then there was Valeria.
Of course she was there. She was wearing red. A bold, screaming red that clashed violently with the subtle creams and blacks the wives were expected to wear. She stood near the bar, holding court with a few of the younger soldiers, her laughter too loud, her eyes constantly darting toward us.
She wasn't just an assistant tonight. She was marking her territory.
I excused myself to go to the ladies' room. I needed to breathe. I needed to scrub the feeling of Dante's hand off my skin before it burned a hole through me.
As I washed my hands, the door opened.
Valeria walked in. She didn't use the stalls. Instead, she leaned against the marble counter, crossing her arms with a smirk that didn't reach her eyes.
"He hates that dress on you," she said. She didn't even pretend to be polite.
I dried my hands slowly, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
"Is that what he told you while he was inside you an hour ago?" I asked, turning to face her. "Or did you have to beg for that compliment too?"
Valeria's face twisted. The mask of the professional slipped, revealing the ambitious, clawing creature beneath.
"He's going to leave you," she spat, stepping closer. "You're cold. You're boring. You're just a contract to him. A merger. I'm the one he wants. I'm the one who knows what he needs."
"You are a hole to fill, Valeria," I said, my voice deadly steady. "I am his wife. I am the mother of his future children. You are a distraction."
She moved faster than I expected.
She stepped forward and slapped me.
The sound echoed off the tiled walls like a gunshot. It wasn't a hard slap, but the insult burned hotter than the pain. A mistress striking a Donna. In our world, people died for less.
I didn't think. I reacted.
Decades of Vitiello training kicked in instinctively. I grabbed her by the hair with a fist full of extensions and slammed her face into the mirror.
The glass cracked. She screamed.
I spun her around and shoved her to the floor. I stood over her, breathing hard, my hand raised to strike again, my blood singing with the need for violence.
"Seraphina!"
Dante's voice was a thunderclap.
He stood in the doorway, filling the frame with his imposing darkness. His eyes went from me to Valeria, who was sobbing on the floor, clutching her bleeding nose.
"Dante, she attacked me!" Valeria wailed, playing the victim perfectly. "She's crazy!"
Dante looked at me.
His eyes were cold, empty. There was no concern for his wife. There was only annoyance that I had caused a scene at his event.
"Get up, Valeria," he said, his tone dismissive. "Go to the car."
He didn't help her up, but he didn't punish her. He didn't pull his gun. He didn't demand retribution for the insult to his wife.
He looked at me, his gaze sweeping over my disheveled state with disdain.
"Fix your hair, Seraphina. You look a mess."
He turned and walked away.
That was the moment the last ember of love in my chest turned to ash. He hadn't just cheated on me. He had stripped me of my honor. He had let a whore strike a queen and walked away.
