Two men stepped out from the shadows as if they’d been waiting all along. Black suits. Stone expressions. Don Moretti’s personal security—soldiers who answered only to him. I barely registered their faces before they seized me, one iron grip on each arm, hauling me backward like a criminal instead of the woman who once ruled this house beside him.
“Mrs. Moretti,” one of them said flatly, already dragging me toward the main villa, “you’re required inside. The Don wants you now. He needs your blood.”
My lungs locked.
“What—no—let go of me!” I thrashed violently, panic flooding my body—not for myself, but for the fragile life hidden beneath my ribs. My heart hammered so hard it felt like a warning siren. A plea. “Why would he need my blood?”
Why him?
Why this marriage?
Why was my punishment always disguised as loyalty?
I had given him everything.
My body. My name. My future. I stood beside him through indictments, rival families circling like wolves, whispers that could’ve torn his empire apart. I shielded him when bullets flew—literal and political. I was his wife in every way that mattered.
Was that still not enough?