Chapter 7
Revenge is patience wrapped in silk. It is a whisper before the scream. And tonight, I was both.
The Venetian Grand was dazzling under the city lights, its golden chandeliers casting a warm glow over the sea of elites draped in their finest. The air smelled of money, power, and expensive perfume. And I fit in perfectly.
I smoothed a hand down the curve of my navy satin dress, the slit high enough to catch wandering eyes but never enough to seem desperate. My hair, now a rich raven black, cascaded in perfect waves, and my once–soft brown eyes were now a striking ice–blue–sharp, dangerous. A ghost wrapped in designer silk.
I picked up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, my movements poised, effortless. Every step, every glance, every smile–I had rehearsed this moment a thousand times. I was ready.
Then I saw him.
Lorenzo.
Standing across the room, the very image of power in a black tux, his sharp jawline even sharper in the dim lighting. He looked the same. Yet… not. Something in his stance had changed. His fingers gripped his whiskey glass a little too tightly. His shoulders were tense despite the effortless charm he exuded. He was haunted. By me.
Good.
I took a slow sip of my champagne, knowing the second he noticed me. His gaze locked onto mine, his entire body stilling as if the world had just tilted. For a split second, I saw it–the crack in his mask. His grip on his glass faltered. His eyes darkened. And then, just as quickly, he composed himself, tilting his head slightly as if trying to place me.
I smiled. The kind of smile that was designed to lure, to intrigue, to destroy.
Lorenzo’s gaze lingered before he turned away, forcing himself back into conversation with some politician I couldn’t care less about. But I knew the damage had been done. He was thinking about me. And I wasn’t done playing yet.
***
He Let Our Daughter Die for
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“Who the hell is she?” Isabella’s voice was sharp, her manicured fingers clutching Lorenzo’s arm as she watched me from across the ballroom.
Lorenzo barely glanced at her. “No one.”
She scoffed, her grip tightening. “That’s not no one. That’s-”
“I don’t know her, Isabella.” His voice wasn’t as firm as it should’ve been. He wasn’t sure. And that terrified Isabella more than anything.
I watched her watching me, the way her lips pressed into a thin line, the way her nails dug into Lorenzo’s sleeve as if she were claiming him.
Then I saw him. Dante.
Arrogant. Proud. Every inch his father’s son. My chest ached, a wound reopening that had never truly healed. Amara should have been here, not him.
I remembered how Lorenzo used to proudly introduce Amara to the world. How he called her his little mafia princess, his heir.
“She will rule beside me one day,” he once told his men, his voice filled with pride. “She’s a De Luca, through and through.”
But when Isabella came… and Dante… everything changed.
He had always dreamed of a son. I knew that. But I never imagined he would erase Amara from his legacy just because I couldn’t give him the heir he always wanted.
The miscarriages. The endless nights of pain. The whispered apologies I never wanted to hear.
“It’s okay, amore,” Lorenzo had whispered once, his forehead resting against mine. “We will try again.”
But we never did. No more babies came. And when Isabella gave him a son, he no longer needed to try.
Now, it was Dante standing by his side. Dante who bore the De Luca name with pride.
Not my Amara.
The pain clawed at my chest, but I swallowed it down, turning my attention back to Isabella. I tilted my head, lifting my champagne glass in a silent
cheers.
Her eyes burned with suspicion. Good. Let her doubt. Let her crumble.
***
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By the time the gala ended, I had danced with two senators, flirted with a CEO’s son, and left behind whispers of my name in all the right places. But my real work had already begun.
As the De Luca empire clinked glasses, laughed, and reveled in their wealth, an entirely different kind of storm was brewing.
Because hours before stepping into this ballroom, I had sent an anonymous leak to multiple media outlets.
A whisper about Lorenzo’s businesses. His empire. His losses.
By the time the night was over, the headlines would scream about The De Luca Holdings Facing Financial Decline–Powerful Mafia Syndicate Under Pressure.
It would be subtle at first. A mere ripple. But ripples become waves. And waves destroy empires.
As I stepped outside, the cool night air brushing against my skin, I felt a presence behind me. I didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.
“I know what you’re doing, bitch.”
Isabella’s voice was low, sharp.
I smiled, still facing forward. “You’ll have to be more specific, darling.”
She stepped beside me, her eyes burning into my profile. “I don’t know who you are, but I will.”
I finally turned to her, my expression nothing but amused curiosity. “You seem tense. Trouble in paradise?”
Her jaw clenched. “Stay away from Lorenzo.”
I laughed softly, tilting my head. “I wasn’t aware he belonged to you.”
“He does.” Her voice wavered, but she forced it out. “And he will never look at you the way you think he will. I am his WIFE.”
I took a step closer, lowering my voice just for her. “Then why do you look so afraid? Afraid that I might steal him away from you? Hmm… I really love that.”
She stilled.
For the first time that night, I saw it–the flicker of fear in her eyes.
She felt it. She knew. I wasn’t some socialite looking for attention.
I was something else.
Chapter 7
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Something worse.
I smirked, stepping past her, my voice a whisper in the wind. “Enjoy the night, Isabella.”
Because soon, her nights would be sleepless.
And her world–just like Lorenzo’s–would start to burn.
