Chapter4:The Divorce
1317 Words
he courthouse always smelled like polished wood, old money, and the ghosts of bloodless deals—politics so sharp they could draw blood. As a kid, Alessia Valente used to daydream under these vaulted ceilings, wondering how many verdicts were bought and sold with a handshake. But today, she wasn’t here for politics or pretense. Today, she tasted revenge with every step.
Outside, the press was a rabid pack, cameras flashing, their shouts carving through November’s chill.
“Alessia! Is the Valente family going to war with the Morettis?”
“Did Luca really cheat on you?”
“Is there a s*x tape?”
“Is a blood feud next?”
She didn’t flinch, didn’t glance. Her heels on marble sent out their own warning. Her dress was black, a blade between the ribs of tradition. Not mourning—proclamation.
Her coat billowed behind her like a crow’s wing stitched from cash and old debts. Red lipstick—dangerous, defiant. Hair pulled high and tight, no soft lines, no mercy. If the world wanted a show, fine. She’d give them one nobody would forget.
Inside, people packed in wall to wall—but not for the circus of legal procedure. No. Mafia families filled every pew: Valente, Moretti, DeLuca, Romano. Even a bored Kovacs from the Bratva, chewing a toothpick and soaking in the spectacle.
They weren’t here to see a marriage die.
They were here for blood.
Alessia strode the center aisle like she owned the bench, the bar, the air itself. Truth was, Valente money had funded half these gilded renovations. In some ways, she did.
Luca Moretti sat at the front: tailored suit, smirk carved sharp, hair slicked and rigid. But the eyes gave him away. Not even he could ignore the whispers—the video, the betrayal stained down to the tiles.
He’d come early, hoping for control. But the minute Alessia found the truth, control was something he’d never own again.
He stood up, jaw tight. “Alessia—”
She sailed past, never meeting his eyes. That was the real wound.
He grabbed her wrist. “Hey. We have to talk.”
She twisted free, her voice cool enough to frost the sun. “Save it. You wasted your words on her.”
A gasp tore up from the crowd. DeLuca cousins grinned. Luca’s mother pressed a trembling hand to her chest.
Red crept up his neck. “You’re being dramatic.”
She c****d her head. “And you’re being weak.”
The judge’s entrance already felt like a formality. Every eye swiveled, every breath hitched, as everyone rose—one giant chessboard awaiting her move.
“Let the record show,” the judge began, “we are here for the dissolution of marriage between Alessia Valente and Luca Moretti. I understand there are... circumstances.”
Circumstances. As though photographs and videos and blood oaths belonged in a manila folder.
The lawyers did their dance—years, finances, overlapping real estate holdings. Then Alessia’s lawyer stood: “We believe we have conclusive evidence of irreparable betrayal, your honor.”
Luca’s lawyer barely got his words out. “Your honor, any claims of infidelity are circumstantial at best—”
Alessia barked a harsh laugh. “Circumstantial? Let’s just watch the movie.”
The gallery erupted—gasps, a low whistle from the Bratva, even a snicker from Valente’s rival cousin Gino.
“Ms. Valente,” the judge cautioned, “this is a court of law, not—”
“Then let’s enter Exhibit A,” her lawyer said mildly, tapping a tablet. The screen flickered to life.
Luca blanched.
“No—stop—” he hissed.
But there was no stopping it now.
There, for everyone to witness: Luca and Celeste. Her kitchen. Her rules broken. His hands where they never should have been.
For a moment, even the ancient ceiling seemed to hold its breath.
Murmurs stormed through the mafia rows:
“On her counter?”
“With that woman?”
“Moretti’s finished.”
“Valente’s going to bury them all.”
When the video ended, Alessia didn’t even blink. She just eased back, crossing her legs, a queen watching an enemy come undone.
The judge fumbled for composure. “Well. That is...conclusive.”
Luca was up, stammering in rage. “This is a violation of privacy! You can’t—”
“It was my kitchen. My home.” Alessia’s voice was a knife. “My life you trashed.”
“You were never home!” Luca spat back, wounded beast panting. “Always busy, always too important. No wonder I—”
She let the silence stretch, then slit it open. “Say it. I dare you.”
He did, baring his worst. “You drove me to her!”
Mafia men on both sides bristled—Marco Valente had to be held back by their uncle.
“Give the judge a minute first,” Aunt Claudia whispered, smiling as if at a funeral.
But Alessia just leveled Luca with a glance. “You cheated because you’re weak. You never belonged in this family, or in my bed.”
He glared, humiliated, looking for an ally and finding the room full of wolves.
“I loved you,” he said, abrupt.
“You loved yourself,” she answered, and the room almost cheered.
The judge hurried ahead—assets divided, properties split, lawyers scribbling.
The gavel descended. “The marriage of Alessia Valente and Luca Moretti is legally dissolved.”
It echoed, sharp as a gunshot.
But the story didn’t end.
Luca surged, jaw flexing. “This isn’t over. You think you’re untouchable—wait until your secrets leak, too.”
Ronan moved first. Always. A whisper in a black suit, already sliding between Luca and Alessia.
“Touch her,” he murmured, “and you’ll leave here on a stretcher.”
A chilling silence—every head turned. Everyone in that room knew Ronan’s past, the things he’d done in shadows, the names that had simply disappeared.
“Stay out of this,” Luca spat.
“I never stay out of what’s mine,” Ronan answered, and even the Bratva guy sat up straighter at that.
For a moment, the courtroom rippled on the edge of violence. Alessia reached out—just her hand on Ronan’s. His shoulders dropped, muscle unclenching.
“Let it go,” she said, low enough that only he heard.
Ronan obeyed—for now.
Luca glared at both, knuckles white on the table, then stormed out, his family a shamed procession behind him.
The moment the doors boomed shut, the place dissolved—whispers, analysis, deals forming on the spot.
“Valente won.”
“Moretti’s too busy licking his wounds.”
“She’ll take over the whole syndicate—just watch.”
Alessia let out a ragged sigh she hadn’t meant to hold.
Ronan looked at her, eyes gentler than she expected. “You okay?”
“Not yet,” she said. “But I will be.”
A crooked smile flickered. “You’re free.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Now I get to fight on my terms.”
Ronan’s lips curved—sly, dangerous, just for her. “Don’t wait for their permission.”
Alessia stepped into the corridor. A blast of camera flashes painted her new armor white. The mafia saw her now—not as an heir, but as a queen with nothing left to lose.
For the first time in months, Alessia’s lungs filled all the way.
“I’m ready for war,” she said, to herself, to Ronan, to anyone daring enough to listen.
And as the Valentes swept her out—press, cameras, whispers blazing behind—Alessia only walked taller.
This divorce wasn’t the end.
It was the opening shot.
Let them all get ready.
Because Alessia Valente was just getting started.
- Writer
