Gianna Vitiello POV:
They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but sometimes, you have to go out and buy the ingredients first.
I had started by freezing his personal accounts. My father had the banking connections to put a hold on Luca's liquidity for 'irregularities pending audit.' It wouldn't last forever-maybe a week-but it was enough to squeeze the air out of his lungs.
I was standing inside the hushed sanctuary of the Hermès boutique on Oak Street. The boutique director, Jean-Luc, didn't just know me by name; he knew my purchase history, my aesthetic, and, most importantly, my credit limit.
"The Birkin," I said, my finger hovering over the glass. "The Himalayan Crocodile. The one you kept in the vault."
"Excellent choice, Ms. Vitiello," Jean-Luc beamed, the tension in his shoulders relaxing as he realized he was making his monthly quota in a single sale.
I was mid-signature on the receipt when the door chimed.
Elena walked in. She was pushing a stroller, her hair slightly askew, looking like a woman holding onto her sanity by a thread. She marched up to the counter, her eyes sliding right past me as if I were part of the furniture.
"I'm here for the bag," she told the sales assistant, breathless. "My husband called yesterday. The Kelly. In rose gold."
The assistant looked uncomfortable, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Mrs. Moretti... I'm afraid there's been a problem with the card on file. It was declined."
Elena's complexion shifted from flushed to a blotchy crimson. "Declined? That's impossible. It's a Black Card."
"It's frozen," I said, my voice low and smooth, not bothering to look up from my receipt.
Elena spun around. She saw me. Then, her gaze dropped to the bag on the counter. The Himalayan. The Holy Grail of handbags, worth ten times the leather she was trying to buy.
"You," she hissed, venom dripping from the syllable. "You did this."
"I'm just shopping, Elena."
"He promised me that bag," she said, her voice rising an octave, cracking with hysteria. "For the stress. For dealing with you!"
She pulled out her phone, fingers trembling as she stabbed at the screen. She dialed Luca and put it on speaker.
"Luca! The card isn't working! And she's here!" Elena screamed into the phone, shattering the boutique's carefully cultivated silence.
"Put her on," Luca's voice sounded heavy, tired.
Elena shoved the phone at me like it was a weapon.
"What do you want, Gianna?" Luca asked.
"I want the North Side lot," I said calmly, leaning against the glass counter. "The empty one near the railyard. The one you bought last year for expansion."
"That's prime territory," Luca snapped. "It's worth millions."
"And your wife is currently making a scene in the most exclusive store in Chicago," I said, keeping my tone conversational. "She's crying, Luca. The baby is crying. It's very... low class. People are staring."
I could hear him breathing on the other end, a ragged, frustrated sound.
"Unfreeze the accounts," he demanded.
"Give me the deed to the land," I countered. "And I'll authorize the transaction for her bag. Just the bag. The accounts stay frozen until the audit is done."
"You want a piece of land for a purse?" he asked, incredulous.
"I want to see what you're willing to trade," I said. "Your legacy for her vanity. Make the choice."
Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.
"Give the phone to Jean-Luc," Luca said finally.
I handed the phone to the manager. Jean-Luc listened, nodded, and then hung up, looking pale as he wiped his brow.
"Mr. Moretti has authorized the transfer of the deed to the Vitiello trust," Jean-Luc announced, his voice tight. "And he has authorized the purchase of the Kelly bag for Mrs. Moretti."
I smiled. It was a sharp thing that didn't reach my eyes.
He had actually done it. He had traded a strategic asset, a piece of land that secured his foothold in the North, just to stop his wife from crying over a handbag.
I picked up my purchase. I walked past Elena, who was clutching her rose gold bag like a lifeline, oblivious to the fact that she had just cost her husband his future.
"It's a nice color," I told her, pausing at the door. "Matches the red ink on his ledger."
I walked out into the biting Chicago air. I had the land. I had the victory. But as I sat in the silence of my car, the triumph tasted like ash. I felt a hollow ache in my chest.
He was destroying himself. And I was just handing him the shovel.
