I wore red.
Not because Dante told me to. Because red was the color of rage. Of blood. Of war.
And I was at war.
Breakfast was silent. Don Sergio read The Wall Street Journal like he hadn’t ordered a man’s death yesterday. Vincent scrolled his phone, thumb flicking over what I knew were kill orders. Dante watched me.
Always watching me.
I ate, I smiled, I played the part of the good mafia wife.
Because I had a new plan.
If I couldn’t run, I’d ruin him from the inside.
10:00 AM. Dante’s Office.
It was a fortress, Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson. Desk made of black walnut, No photos, No softness, Just guns in a glass case and a laptop that probably cost more than my old apartment.
I was allowed in. “To learn the family business,” Don Sergio had said at breakfast.
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