The Betrayed Wife's Ruthless Mafia Comeback

Katarina De Luca POV:

A few days later, I hosted a small afternoon tea in the garden for the wives of neighboring families. It was one of my duties, a tedious but necessary part of maintaining the De Luca facade.

I moved among the guests, a gracious and serene hostess, the picture of domestic tranquility.

Aria was there. Her accounts had been restored, her confidence with them. She wore a new diamond bracelet that glittered obnoxiously in the sun. She believed I had surrendered, and she was eager to press her advantage, to humiliate me in front of my peers.

She approached as I was speaking with the elderly Matriarch of the Falcone family, a glass of champagne in her hand.

"Mrs. De Luca is such an inspiration," Aria said to Mrs. Falcone, her voice dripping with false admiration. "She manages the family's business and the household accounts. So much work. I'm lucky, all I have to do is keep Alessandro happy."

The implication was clear: I was the help, she was the pleasure. The other women exchanged subtle, knowing glances.

I offered a placid smile. "We all have our roles. Some of us are here to create value, and others... are here to consume it."

Aria's face tightened, a flash of anger in her eyes.

Just then, Alessandro appeared, walking across the lawn toward our group.

Seeing her champion, Aria’s eyes lit up with a new, malicious idea. As she moved to pass me, her ankle "twisted" unnaturally. The champagne in her hand flew through the air, drenching the front of my dress.

Simultaneously, she let out a theatrical cry and threw herself sideways, collapsing into a bed of prize-winning roses.

Alessandro didn't see the prelude. He only saw the result: Aria, screaming in a thorn bush, and me, standing over her, looking cold and unmoved.

He rushed forward, his face a mask of concern. "Aria! Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

The tears came instantly, a masterful performance. "My ankle," she sobbed, clutching it. "I think... I think she tripped me."

The accusation, so blatant and absurd, hung in the suddenly silent air.

The guests watched, their faces rapt with the unfolding drama.

Alessandro bought every word. His head snapped toward me, his eyes blazing with fury. My dress was still dripping with champagne.

"Katarina! What the hell did you do?" he snarled.

I said nothing. I just watched the pathetic little play unfold. Any denial would be pointless. His verdict was already rendered.

Aria, nestled in his arms, dialed up the pathos. "It's not her fault, Alessandro, I was probably just clumsy... Oh, but my ankle really hurts."

Her feigned magnanimity only fueled his protective rage.

He scooped her up into his arms, a ridiculous, dramatic gesture, like a hero in a cheap romance novel.

He started to carry her toward the house, but then he stopped. He turned. And in front of everyone, in front of the most powerful women in our circle, he delivered his final, devastating command.

His voice was like a whip crack.

"Katarina. Apologize to Aria."