The estate was quiet until it wasn’t.

Gianna sat in the drawing room, wrapped in a velvet shawl and false composure, when Alessia burst in—tablet in hand, eyes wide.

“Have you seen this?” Alessia screeched, tossing the screen onto the marble table. It skidded, spinning for a heartbeat before stopping on the headline:

“Morelli’s Former Wife Becomes Mafia Heiress: Beauty, Brains, and Bloodlines.”

There it was—Aria, staring up at them from the screen like a specter wrapped in satin.

Gianna stared. Her throat worked soundlessly.

“Is this real?” she whispered.

“Oh, it’s real,” Alessia snapped. “It’s everywhere. Instagram. Telegram. Even mothers in the third circle are talking about it.”

Gianna picked up the tablet with shaking hands, reading the lines out loud like they’d help her believe them.

“Graceful in exile, Aria Morelli has reemerged not as a discarded bride—but as a rising force of influence.”

She dropped the device like it burned.

“Who approved this? How did this even—”

“No one approved it,” Alessia spat. “It’s a hit piece dressed like a love letter. And we are the punchline.”

At that moment, Valentina entered, drawn to the chaos like a vulture to smoke. She was already on the phone, voice cold and clipped. “I don’t care if she had a PR consultant from the gods, shut it down. Get every outlet that reposted to pull it. Now.”

She hung up, surveying the room with disgust.

“You two let this happen,” she hissed.

Alessia turned on her. “Us? Don’t start with that martyr complex, Valentina. You’re the one who told Dante to ‘stay quiet and let it blow over.’”

“Because silence is how we survive scandals!” Valentina snapped. “But now she’s flipped the narrative. She made herself a symbol. And now we look like petty, spiteful ex-in-laws.”

Alessia’s voice rose. “We are petty, spiteful ex-in-laws!”

Gianna pressed her fingers to her temples. “Please, stop shouting—my head is pounding.”

“Oh, your head is pounding?” Alessia rounded on her. “You’re the one who told Aria she was lucky to be chosen. Lucky, Mom! Now look at her!”

Valentina stalked to the window, jaw clenched. “She’s playing a long game. This is a setup for something bigger. You don’t publish a piece like this unless you’re about to strike again.”

“I knew we shouldn’t have let her walk away so quietly,” Gianna muttered. “I knew it.”

“You’re the one who said keeping things ‘civil’ was better for optics,” Alessia fired back. “Now optics are bleeding down every goddamn headline.”

Valentina slammed her palm on the sill. “Where’s Dante?”

No one answered.

Alessia crossed her arms. “Probably sulking in the wine cellar or screwing someone who doesn’t know his last wife just publicly crowned herself queen.”

“We have to retaliate,” Valentina said.

“With what?” Gianna asked bitterly. “She left us with nothing to drag. No scandal. No leaked messages. She never yelled. Never cheated. We underestimated her.”

Alessia spun, kicking the ottoman hard enough it slid. “She’s not even Morelli anymore, and she’s more powerful than when she was in this house!”

The room descended into wild silence—breaths too loud, pride too fragile.

Then Valentina turned, her voice quieter but laced with steel. “No woman rewrites our legacy and walks away untouched.”

She faced her sisters.

“Find out who helped her. Who placed the story. Who stood behind that camera. I want names by midnight.”

Gianna hesitated. “And then what?”

Valentina smiled without warmth.

“We remind them,” she said, “why no one climbs out of this family without scars.”

***

Aria’s POV

I was walking past the kitchen when I heard her voice. Rosa, a maid visiting from the Morelli estate. She didn’t see me standing by the doorway, but I heard everything.

She was speaking to the head cook, her hands busy with a bowl of dough, but her voice dropped just enough to carry across the marble floor.

“I saw him yesterday,” she said, almost reluctantly.

“Dante?” the cook asked, pausing over a tray of wine bottles. Rosa nodded slowly. “He looks awful. Thin. Tired. He barely speaks. Just stares out the window like a ghost.”

I didn’t breathe.

Another kitchen girl leaned in. “Because he lost her,” she murmured. Her voice carried the softness of someone who didn’t know she was speaking truth into the open.

I stepped into the room then, calm, steady.

“Keep going,” I said. The silence dropped like glass.

Rosa turned red. Her eyes widened as she realized I had been listening. She straightened instinctively, flour clinging to her apron.

“He—he’s falling apart,” she said. “Valentina yells at him in front of the staff. Business is crumbling. Some partners are pulling out. It’s… not good over there.”

I walked to the counter and sat down slowly, folding my arms. “Poor thing,” I said, tone flat. “So tragic.”

The women chuckled nervously, unsure whether to follow my lead or look away. I let the discomfort linger. Let them feel the weight of a name I no longer had to share.

“Does he ask about me?” I asked, voice still even. It wasn’t a question of curiosity. It was a strategy. Power was knowing the answer before it was spoken.

Rosa hesitated, her lips parting slightly before she dared respond. “Only when he thinks no one hears,” she whispered. “He lowers his voice. Walk the corridors late. Sometimes… he says things like he’s speaking into the dark.”

I tilted my head, watching her. “And what does he say?”

Rosa shifted. She looked down, fidgeting with the edge of a dishtowel before meeting my gaze again. “I should’ve fought for her.”

“He doesn’t eat much,” Rosa added, her voice quieter now. “He skips meals. Sometimes he doesn’t change clothes. He’s… not well.”

I stirred the spoon beside me, though there was nothing in the bowl. “Grief is a heavy thing,” I said. “Especially when it’s built on guilt.”

The women exchanged glances.

“Do they blame him yet?” I asked. “The partners. The press.”

Rosa nodded. “Some say he moved too fast. The engagement with Valentina soured things. Others think it was internal mismanagement. Either way, they’re pulling away. Slowly. Like rats before a flood.”

I let out a low hum. “And Valentina?”

Rosa hesitated. “She’s angry. Embarrassed. She thought marrying into the name would bring her power. Instead, she’s married to a man falling apart. Some say she’s been asking the lawyers about inheritance clauses.”

I smiled without showing my teeth. “How romantic.”