Serena's POV:
Past ten o'clock at night, the lock on the front door finally clicked. The penthouse was dim.
I was sitting in a leather chair by the window, my left cheek swollen and throbbing.
Salvatore walked into the living room and paused when he saw me sitting in the dark. He sighed tiredly, went to the kitchen, and grabbed some ice wrapped in a towel.
He walked over to me, trying to press the ice pack against my bruised cheek.
I jerked my head away. "Don't touch me."
"Serena, don't be like this." He tried to soothe me in a low voice, but his tone only made me find it even more ridiculous. "You humiliated me in front of the men. You know my temper."
"You actually laid a hand on the patriarch's bloodline." I forcefully suppressed the storm inside me, my voice unusually calm. "You broke your vow to protect me."
"She is crucial to my network!" Salvatore lost his patience instantly, snapping at me. "She controls the docks. She is untouchable! Put away your childish vindictiveness. She is business, and you are my wife."
"Since I am your wife," I looked straight into his dark eyes, "then come back to the estate with me tomorrow. Grandfather wants to see you."
Salvatore stiffened and avoided my gaze. "I can't go. I have family business to handle."
"What business?"
"There's a problem with the port supply line." He lied without batting an eye. "I'll go see the old man next week."
Watching his back as he walked toward the master bedroom, my heart felt absolutely nothing.
Actually, I already knew exactly what his "business" was. An hour ago, an informant sent over intel—tomorrow is Chiara's birthday, and he rented out an entire casino yacht at the docks to celebrate for her.
He would rather ignore the patriarch's summons to drink champagne with a whore.
I slowly stood up. I walked into my private study and firmly locked the heavy oak door.
I opened my laptop and started a secure, encrypted video call.
The screen flickered a few times before lighting up.
On the other end of the screen, my consigliere appeared. He was a silver-haired old man who had served my grandfather for forty years. He took one look at me, his eyes landing on my bruised face.
His gaze was already deep, but now it turned even colder.
"Give the order, Serena," he said in a low voice, quickly realizing what had happened.
"It's not time yet," I said coldly. "I want him to think I've been completely beaten into submission, that I'm a compliant wife. Tomorrow, I will go see Grandfather alone."
"And Maroni?" the consigliere asked.
"Let him throw his party." A completely temperatureless smile curved on my lips. "Because after tomorrow night, that yacht will sink to the bottom of the East River."
Cutting the call, I walked over to the gilded mirror and looked at the dark purple bruise on my cheek.
Salvatore thought he had everything under control, thought he was the master of this game. But his arrogance made him forget the most lethal trait of the Vitiello bloodline.
We never get angry; we just get even.
The phone on the desk vibrated. It was a text from him in the bedroom: "We'll talk tomorrow. Get some rest."
I deleted the message immediately. I didn't need rest; I needed to prepare for a war.
