Aria Vitiello POV:
I slipped off my high heels, leaving them by the heavy oak console table in the foyer. I stepped barefoot onto the expensive Persian rug. I moved silently, placing the ball of my foot down before the heel. It was an evasion tactic I learned at ten years old to hide from rival assassins, a survival instinct that was now being used in my own home.
The double doors to the living room were slightly ajar. The flickering orange light from the fireplace spilled through the crack, dancing across the dark wood floor in the hallway.
I pressed my back against the cold wall right beside the doors.
"The trust fund needs to be restructured immediately," Gia’s voice drifted out. It wasn't her usual meek, submissive whisper. It was dripping with arrogance and superiority.
Hearing her voice triggered a violent flashback. Every night at exactly nine o'clock for the past three years, Gia would knock on my bedroom door. She would stand there, her head bowed obediently, holding a steaming cup of custom-blended chamomile tea. *“It will help you sleep, ma'am,”* she would say, her eyes fixed on the floor.
A sudden, sharp phantom pain stabbed my lower abdomen. Two years ago, I sat in a sterile doctor's office and listened to a specialist tell me I had irreversible premature ovarian failure. I was entirely barren.
I slapped my hand over my mouth. My eyes burned red in the dim hallway. The puzzle pieces violently snapped together. The tea. The infertility. It wasn't a medical anomaly. It was a systematic poisoning.
"As you wish, Mrs. Vitiello," another voice spoke. It was the family’s senior financial advisor. I heard the rustle of thick parchment paper being turned. "Per Mr. Dante's instructions, we are establishing Leo as the sole, first-in-line heir to the entire Vitiello empire."
My fingernails dug so hard into my palms that they broke the skin. Leo. The bastard child Gia had brought into the estate five years ago.
I remembered how cold Dante used to be toward that boy. He wouldn't even look at him. Now, he was handing over a century-old mafia dynasty to a nanny's bastard.
This wasn't just betrayal. This was a calculated, slow-motion murder of my existence and my family's legacy.
Every muscle in my body screamed at me to kick the doors open and tear Gia’s throat out with my bare hands. But I forced the rage down, burying it under a block of ice. I knew the rules of our world. Exposing your killing intent when you had no leverage was a fast way to get a bullet in the back of the head.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, turned on the voice recorder, and pressed the microphone flush against the crack in the door.
"Mr. Dante," the advisor said carefully. "Are you absolutely certain you want to strip Aria of all her marital asset shares? This will leave her with nothing."
I held my breath. I waited for the man who had once taken a knife to the ribs to protect me to speak.
The silence stretched for ten agonizing seconds.
"Yes," Dante finally said.
His voice was hoarse, delayed, and completely flat. It sounded mechanical, stripped of any human emotion. It made the hairs on my arms stand up.
The last microscopic shred of hope in my chest turned to ash.
I heard the advisor snapping his briefcase shut. I immediately spun around and retreated into the deep shadows near the grand staircase.
The living room doors opened. The advisor walked out, and Gia followed him to the front door. She was smiling brightly, playing the perfect, gracious hostess. Watching her parade around in my house made my stomach churn violently.
The heavy front door clicked shut. Gia turned around, humming a light Italian folk tune, and practically skipped back into the living room.
I stepped out of the shadows and crept back to the crack in the doors.
I had to know. I had to see why Dante, a ruthless tyrant who slaughtered his enemies without blinking, was letting a cheap nanny pull his strings.
I leaned in, angling my vision past the edge of the velvet sofa, looking toward the center of the rug.
What I saw paralyzed me.
Dante, the Underboss who made the entire East Coast underworld tremble, had his back to the door. His custom suit jacket was discarded on the floor. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest.
And Gia was sitting high up on the single leather armchair. In her hand, she held a delicate porcelain teacup, steam rising from it, carrying a weird, pungent herbal smell that reached all the way to the hallway.
"So even the untouchable Godfather has a day to kneel."
