Prologue
My husband, Marco Rosetti, lost everything.
Then I saw he'd liked a streamer's page.
She was sitting in our villa—the one the bank took.
"My sugar daddy faked his bankruptcy," she said. "Moved his wife to a rental and gave me her jewelry."
I knew those jewels. I'd given them to Marco to sell for debt.
"He's divorcing her too. She has this ugly scar from a stillbirth. He says it makes him sick to touch her."
The screen went dark.
My reflection stared back.
I have that scar.
My phone buzzed.
Marco: Let's divorce. Just until I get back on my feet. Then we'll remarry.
I wiped my eyes.
Me: Okay.
I was going to tell him the truth—that I'm the Valentino heiress, that I could save his family with one word.
But after this?
He didn't deserve it.
Chapter 1
My husband, Marco Rosetti—the infamous Don of the Rosetti crime family—had just lost everything.
Or so I believed.
When the news broke that the Rosetti empire had crumbled overnight, I was standing in our mansion, pruning the last rose bush that hadn't yet wilted. Within hours, we went from the penthouse to the gutter. Bank accounts frozen. Our home seized by the bank. And every luxury bag, every piece of jewelry he'd ever given me—symbols of his love, he'd called them—were taken to be "sold off to cover the debts."
I didn't complain. I packed my things quietly and followed him to a rundown apartment that cost eight hundred dollars a month.
The place was cramped. Damp. The walls were stained with mold. It couldn't have been more different from the life we'd left behind.
Marco held me close, his chin resting on top of my head. His voice was rough, exhausted.
"I'm sorry, Chiara. You deserve better than this. I'll make it up to you a thousand times over once I'm back on top."
I pressed myself against his chest, my heart aching for him. "It's okay, Marco. I'm not going anywhere. I'm with you."
I believed him. The way I believed the sun would rise in the east every morning.
But reality had a way of shattering faith.
That night, boredom got the better of me. I found myself scrolling through his social media accounts—something I rarely did. His activity was sparse, but one thing caught my attention.
He'd liked a post from a woman who went by the name LunaLove. A streamer.
My stomach tightened.
I clicked on her profile. She was live.
The girl on my screen was young. Pretty. And the background behind her was painfully familiar.
It was my living room.
The one I'd designed myself. Every piece of furniture, every decoration—I'd chosen them all. And a month ago, when Marco's empire supposedly collapsed, that house had been seized and auctioned off.
I hadn't expected the new owner to be some internet personality.
Luna lounged on my custom-made sofa, a smug smile playing on her lips as she addressed her audience.
"My sugar daddy spoils me rotten," she cooed. "I told him I was jealous of his wife—you know, getting to enjoy all that power and status openly. So you know what he did? He pretended to go bankrupt. Made his wife move into some rundown shithole. And moved me into their mansion."
My breath caught in my throat.
"He wanted me to experience what it feels like to be a mafia don's woman."
She reached behind the couch and dragged out a pile of luxury handbags and jewelry—an entire mountain of them, glittering under the studio lights.
"He didn't want me to feel left out, so he gave me all her things. Said I deserved them more anyway."
My eyes locked onto the screen.
Those bags. Those jewels. The limited edition pieces. The specific colors. I knew them all.
They were mine.
The same ones Marco had taken to "sell for debt."
So that was the truth. My belongings hadn't gone to pay off loans. They'd been transferred directly to his mistress's closet.
My heart clenched so hard I could barely breathe.
But she wasn't finished.
"He said he's been wanting to divorce her for a while now," Luna continued, laughing into the camera. "I mean, she's old news. Can't satisfy him anymore. And get this—she had a stillbirth a while back, and the scar on her stomach is hideous. He said he feels sick every time he's on top of her."
She flipped her hair. "Anyway, my man's about to walk through the door, so I'm gonna go slip into something more comfortable. Bye, everyone!"
The screen went black.
And in the reflection, I saw my own face. Pale. Hollow.
My hand drifted to my lower abdomen. Beneath my clothes, there was a scar. Long. Jagged. Ugly.
The remnant of our first child. The one we'd lost.
Marco used to kiss that scar. He'd tell me it was a badge of honor—proof of what I'd endured for our family. A debt he could never repay.
Now it was something that made him sick.
Ding.
My phone lit up with a message.
[Marco: Baby, some creditors are breathing down my neck. I can't make it home tonight.]
A second message followed immediately.
[Marco: I don't want you to suffer because of me. Maybe we should get a divorce. Just temporarily. Once I'm back on my feet, we can remarry. What do you think?]
I stared at his words until they blurred.
How considerate. How selfless.
He didn't want me to suffer.
He'd sweep me back up when it was convenient.
I almost laughed. Almost.
He had no idea who he was married to.
I was Chiara Valentino. The only daughter of the Valentino family—the most powerful crime syndicate in North America. With a single word from me, I could wipe out every cent of Rosetti debt. I could buy half of Chicago without blinking.
But after watching that video?
He didn't deserve to know.
I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. My fingers felt cold as I typed my response—just one word.
[Okay.]
