He Traded A Diamond For Cheap Glass
I was the "Ice Queen," the perfect Mafia wife who managed the De Luca empire's millions while my husband, Alessandro, played the part of the feared Underboss.
I thought my silence and competence earned me respect.
That was until I woke up in the estate's medical bay with a shattered leg.
My saddle had snapped mid-jump. It wasn't wear and tear; it was sabotage.
Lying in the dark, feigning sleep, I heard Alessandro whispering outside my door with his enforcer.
"The buckle was filed down," the enforcer said urgently. "Aria tampered with it. She could have broken her neck."
I waited for Alessandro’s rage. I waited for him to execute the mistress who tried to kill his wife.
Instead, his voice was cold and dismissive.
"Bury it," Alessandro ordered. "It’s just a broken leg. Aria was upset about the credit cards. She just wanted to teach Katarina a lesson."
A lesson.
My husband wasn't just cheating on me; he was protecting the woman who tried to cripple me.
Three days later, at the Family Charity Gala, he humiliated me publicly. He outbid me for my grandmother's heirloom necklace and clasped it around Aria's neck while I watched from my wheelchair.
He thought I was broken. He thought I was just a piece of furniture to be rearranged.
He didn't know I had bugged the entire villa while I was recovering.
He didn't know I had the recordings of what Aria was really doing when he wasn't looking.
I gripped the USB drive in my pocket and signaled the tech team to lock the doors.
The statue was broken, but he was about to learn that shattered ice is sharp enough to slit a throat.
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Chapter 7
Katarina De Luca POV
The sound of my palm striking Aria’s cheek cracked through the ballroom like a gunshot.
The impact was hard enough to snap her head to the side.
The orchestra cut off instantly, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
Aria stumbled back, her hand flying to her stinging face. She stared at me, eyes wide with feigned shock, before collapsing to the floor in a calculated heap of white lace.
She looked up at the crowd, tears already streaming, summoning a performance worthy of an Oscar.
"She’s crazy!" she screamed, her voice shrill.
Alessandro was moving toward us now, pushing through the stunned guests. But he was too slow. He was always too slow.
Donato stepped forward from the shadows, his expression tight. He looked annoyed—not at the violence, but at the mess threatening his evening.
"A tribute!" Donato shouted to the DJ, his voice booming to cover the scene. "Play the tribute video! Now!"
The large LED screen behind the stage flickered to life.
It was supposed to be a montage of the Family’s charity work. Smiling orphans. Soup kitchens. The usual tax write-offs designed to buy us sainthood.
It wasn't.
A harsh static shrieked through the speakers.
Then, an image resolved through the digital noise.
It was the video from Aria’s phone.
My breath died in my throat.
It was distorted, edited to zoom in on my face, highlighting my vulnerability. The audio had been amplified to a deafening volume. My own voice, soft and intimate, boomed through the cavernous ballroom.
Moans. Breathless whispers of love.
It was a public execution of my dignity.
The room went dead silent. Heavier than the silence before. This was the silence of a grave.
I froze. I couldn't move. I felt naked, skinned alive in front of the predators I was supposed to rule.
Alessandro stopped halfway to the stage. He looked at the screen, then at me. His face was a mask of horror. He hadn't done this. He was stupid, but he wasn't suicidal.
Aria was still on the floor, but I saw the smile curling behind her hand.
She had uploaded it. She had pulled the trigger.
I closed my eyes, waiting for the ground to swallow me whole.
A violent crash shattered the humiliation.
A heavy wooden chair sailed through the air, smashing into the center of the LED screen.
Sparks showered down like rain. The image distorted, fractured into jagged pixels, and then died into blessed blackness.
I opened my eyes.
Julian Moreau stood on the stage.
He was a silhouette of pure, unadulterated rage. His suit jacket was discarded, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension. He looked like the God of War made flesh.
He jumped down from the stage and marched toward me. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea, terrified of the violence radiating from him.
He didn't look at Alessandro. He didn't look at Aria.
He saw only me.
He took off his tuxedo jacket and wrapped it around my trembling shoulders. It was heavy and warm. It smelled of expensive tobacco, cedar, and the sharp tang of gunpowder.
He pulled the lapels tight, shielding me from the prying eyes of the vultures surrounding us.
Then, he turned to the room.
His voice was calm. Terrifyingly, lethally calm.
"She is mine," he said.
He scanned the faces of the Capos, the politicians, the rivals—daring them to breathe.
"If anyone touches her, if anyone speaks of this, you had best pray for death. Because I will not be as kind as God."
He put his arm around my waist, pulling me firmly into his side. His grip was iron, an anchor in the storm.
"Walk tall, chérie," he whispered against my ear, his voice a low rumble. "Do not look down."
I lifted my chin.
I let him lead me out of the ballroom, leaving the wreckage behind.
For the first time in my marriage, I wasn't walking alone.
Katarina De Luca POV: