Seraphina Vitiello POV
The film studio operated out of a massive, converted warehouse in Queens-a facade where the Family laundered millions of dollars through low-budget action flicks.
Security guards dipped their chins in respect as I strode past.
They still feared me.
They knew I was the one who signed their checks, even if Dante gave the orders.
I found them on the main soundstage.
Camilla was lounging in a director's chair with her name taped crudely over mine.
She was laughing with a makeup artist, her hand resting protectively on her stomach.
When she saw me, her smile faltered, then sharpened into something jagged.
"Here comes the ex-wife," she announced, her voice carrying over the hum of the set.
The crew went dead silent.
Dante wasn't there yet.
I walked straight up to her.
She stood, trying to posture herself as intimidating, but beneath the lights, she was just a girl in a costume.
"You're in my chair," I said, my voice ice-cold.
She smirked.
"Dante said everything that was yours is mine now. Including him. Especially him."
She leaned in close, her perfume cloying and sickeningly sweet.
"He told me about the rival Don," she whispered, her eyes glinting with malice. "He told me you spread your legs for the enemy to get that treaty seven years ago. He calls you his little whore."
The rage that had been simmering in my gut boiled over.
I didn't think.
My hand moved on its own.
I slapped her.
It wasn't a polite slap.
It was a strike meant to draw blood.
Camilla shrieked, stumbling back.
"You crazy bitch!" she screamed.
I grabbed her by the hair, twisting the strands.
"You want a scene?" I asked, my voice trembling with fury. "I'll give you a scene."
I slapped her again, a backhand this time.
She fell to the floor, scrambling away from me like a frightened animal.
One of the bodyguards stepped forward, but I whipped my head around to glare at him.
"Touch me and you die," I warned.
He hesitated, backing down.
Camilla grabbed a cup of hot coffee from the craft services table and hurled it at me.
I dodged, the scalding liquid splashing my shoes.
She was screaming now, her voice shrill-calling me barren, calling me dried up, calling me useless.
"Seraphina!"
Dante's voice boomed across the stage, cutting through the chaos.
He stormed in from the back entrance, flanked by three soldiers.
He saw Camilla on the floor, sobbing theatrically.
He saw me standing over her.
He didn't ask what happened.
He rushed to Camilla, hauling her up, frantically checking her face.
"She hit me, Dante! She tried to kill the baby!"
Dante turned to me, his eyes black with fury.
"You crossed the line," he growled.
He stepped toward me, radiating menace.
I stood my ground.
"I didn't touch your heir, Dante. I just touched your whore."
He lost control.
The mask of the composed Don slipped.
He shoved me.
It was a hard, brutal push to my chest.
I flew backward.
My heels caught on a loose cable snaking across the floor.
I fell hard.
My lower back slammed against the unforgiving concrete.
Pain exploded in my abdomen.
It wasn't the impact of the fall.
It was something internal.
Something tearing.
Dante was already walking away with Camilla, cooing at her in hushed tones.
I tried to sit up, but the room spun violently.
A warm wetness spread between my legs.
I looked down.
Blood.
Bright red blood was pooling on the gray concrete, staining my red dress a darker, glistening shade.
A grip appeared on my arm-one of the soldiers.
"Maestra?" he asked, his voice shaking.
He looked at the floor, his face draining of color.
"Holy Mother of God," he whispered. "The Maestra is bleeding."
I clutched my stomach.
The realization hit me before the pain did.
The IVF hadn't failed.
The clinic text had been a delay, or a mistake, or I had misread it in my panic.
I wasn't barren.
I had been pregnant.
And my husband, the man who wanted a son more than air, had just killed his own child to protect a lie.
