Dante’s POV

The walls of this house used to command silence. Now they echoed with hysteria.

Gianna stormed past my study at dawn: still in last night’s silk robe, pearls twisted around her neck like a noose she refused to take off. She barked orders to no one, waved off the staff, and slammed the dining room door with a force that rattled the china. I didn’t even flinch.

She’s been unraveling ever since Aria resurfaced.

“She’s not Corvatti,” Gianna had hissed yesterday. “Matteo found her in a gutter and wrapped her in silk. That girl is a fraud—an embarrassment.”

No one responded. Not the staff. Not even Alessia, who usually fed on that kind of venom.

My sister—my once-vicious, ever-entitled sister—was now curled up in the guest lounge, scrolling through her phone with shaking fingers. Social media had turned on her. On us. The press no longer called Aria the “invisible wife.” They called her Velmorra’s Viper.

Alessia threw her phone across the couch.

“She’s everywhere,” she spat. “Everyone’s obsessed with her now. Like she’s some mafia Cinderella.”

“No,” I muttered. “She’s the storm that came after the ball.”

They both glared at me. But I didn’t care.

Let them seethe. This house was already burning.

And then there was Valentina.

She was the match.

She moved through the halls like a queen in exile—furious, overdressed, clinging to her delusions of power with blood-red nails. She still wore the jewelry I gave her, still played the part of the future Morelli bride, but behind closed doors, she was losing control.

Worse, she was talking.

“She’s not even Corvatti,” she whispered in salons, kitchens, anywhere a listening ear might be nearby. “Matteo is just propping her up to save face. I mean, look at her, does she look like mafia blood to you?”

The whispers traveled fast. I heard them from staff. From allies. From enemies pretending not to be.

“She’s playing everyone,” Valentina had snapped at me last night, pacing our bedroom like she hadn’t lost the war two weeks ago. “She’s using Matteo. Don’t you see it?”

I stared at her.

“I see a woman who was handed nothing—and turned it into power. And I see a woman who was handed everything—and turned it into dust.”

Her hand flew before she could stop it.

The slap landed, loud and sharp. But it didn’t sting as much as the silence that followed.

“I should’ve thrown you out when I had the chance,” I said coldly.

Her voice cracked. “You think she’s better than me?”

“No,” I said. “I think she’s real. And I think you’re terrified of what that looks like.”

She didn’t speak after that. Just grabbed her coat and slammed the door behind her.

The estate was suffocating. Every room a reminder. Every step haunted by everything I let rot.

The breakfast table was set but untouched. Gianna sat stiffly at the head, cradling her espresso like it was her last tether to relevance. Alessia sat beside her, nursing a hangover in diamond-studded sunglasses. Neither of them spoke.

Their silence was louder than any accusation.

“She played us,” Gianna muttered finally. “All these years. Right under our roof.”

“She didn’t play anyone,” I said. “We never saw her. That’s the real problem.”

Alessia scoffed. “Oh, spare us the guilty husband act. You didn’t see her because you were too busy screwing her replacement.”

I flinched, but didn’t deny it. What would be the point?

“I just found out she wasn’t replaceable,” I said quietly.

Alessia tilted her sunglasses down just enough to glare. “You think that makes it better?”

I ran a hand through my hair, turning away from them, pacing toward the glass doors that overlooked the courtyard. The view was pristine. The garden manicured to perfection.

And still, it felt like decay.

“She loved this family once,” I said after a moment. “And we let her drown in it.”

Gianna laughed bitterly. “Oh, now he’s romanticizing her. That’s rich.”

“No,” I said, turning back. “I’m not romanticizing anything. I’m just—finally telling the truth.”

“She left us humiliated,” Gianna snapped, placing her espresso down with a sharp click. “You think that’s love?”

“She left because she was already gone,” I said. “She just did it with a crown on.”

Alessia stared at me, eyes hard behind the lenses. “She didn’t just walk out, Dante. She detonated our whole lives. She lit a match and walked away while we burned.”

I nodded once. “Yeah. And maybe we deserved it.”

The silence that followed was charged. Grief, guilt, rage, and something else none of us wanted to name: shame.

Because the truth wasn’t just that Aria had left.

It was that she’d won.

“Let her enjoy the spotlight,” Gianna murmured. “It’ll be the last light she sees.”