Valeria POV
In two long strides, Silas closed the distance between us, his hands reaching out to capture both of mine.
His rough thumbs rubbed over my knuckles. The anger had evaporated from his face, replaced by a bright, almost boyish energy.
"I knew you'd be reasonable," he murmured, his voice laced with an admiration for a quality I did not possess. "I knew you wouldn't throw Serena out over a simple misunderstanding."
He kept talking, his words a torrent of relief, telling me how terribly guilty Serena felt after I had departed the bridal shop.
He had the audacity to describe the hour he had spent convincing her to remain Maid of Honor—all for the sake of the Family's image, he claimed.
A strange coldness spread through my limbs, not of shock, but of grim finality. I realized, with a sense of profound detachment, he was speaking more words to me now than he had in a single sitting over the past five years.
Then, with an air of settling a minor logistical issue, he announced that Serena's original plan to move out of the estate after our wedding was no longer necessary.
"The place is more than big enough for all of us," he assured me.
He was planning his perfect, perverse little life right in front of my face.
Still holding my left hand in a vise-like grip, Silas excitedly pulled his encrypted phone from his suit jacket pocket with his right hand. He opened his secure messaging app to text Serena the ostensibly good news.
The screen illuminated the dim hallway, and I looked down.
There were only two pinned contacts at the very top of his list. The first one was saved with a pink heart emoji. The name read Bunny.
The second contact was me. It was starkly saved as V. Rossi.
He typed a quick message to Bunny and locked the phone. He was in such high spirits he smiled down at me and wrapped a possessive arm around my waist.
The weight of his arm was a familiar anchor I had once craved, but now it felt like a shackle, cold even through the fabric of my blouse. His cologne—dark amber and clove—invaded my nostrils, a scent I had once associated with safety and now registered only as the smell of my own erasure.
He tried to pull my body against his chest, leaning down to initiate a kiss.
A wave of revulsion, so pure and potent it felt like a physical illness, washed over me.
I shoved my hands hard against his chest, pushing him away with a strength I didn't know I had. I pointed a trembling finger down the hall and ordered him to sleep in the guest room.
His smile vanished. The cold, rigid, imperious Underboss returned.
He let out a heavy, patronizing sigh, and with deliberate care, adjusting the silver cufflinks of his shirt.
"You are being overly dramatic," he said, his voice dropping to a lethal octave.
He looked down his nose at me and informed me that in this dark, violent world, only a man like him would tolerate my difficult temper.
I refused to listen to another word. I turned on my heel, walked into the master bedroom, and slammed the heavy oak door shut behind me.
I leaned against the wood, my breath coming in ragged gasps, when my phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was a message from the syndicate's event planner. With unsteady fingers, I opened the attachment.
It was the final digital proof of the massive wedding poster that would hang in the hotel lobby.
I stared at the screen, feeling nothing at all.
Serena's face was edited right next to his, her smile radiant and triumphant.
The trap was set. Tomorrow, the entire underworld would witness the truth I had manufactured for them—and neither Silas nor Serena would be able to untangle the web I had woven around their lies.
