The Mafia Princess is Back

"Elena, you're misunderstanding," Marco said, reaching for my hand. "This is all for our future."

I stepped back, pulling away from his touch.

"Our future?" I motioned to Isabella, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "Does our future have a guest star?"

"Don't be ridiculous." His patience was wearing thin. "Isabella is helping. She knows the wives of three potential investors here tonight."

Isabella walked toward me, the bracelet flashing under the lights.

She deliberately lifted her wrist, making the diamonds catch the light.

"Elena, you should understand Marco's position." Her voice was sickeningly sweet. "Business is war. He needs all the help he can get."

Marco's mother nodded. "Isabella's right. Elena, you're always so emotional."

"Emotional?" I scoffed. "Do you have any idea what I've put into this family?"

Sofia rolled her eyes. "Here we go again. Every time you're upset, you bring up money."

"Money?" My voice turned sharp. "Sofia, those Louboutins on your feet? That Hermès bag you're holding? Who paid for them?"

Sofia snapped back.

"That was Marco's money! You just hold the purse strings."

"And you," I turned to Marco's mother. "Your oceanfront villa in Florida—I pay the monthly maintenance. Your private doctor, your driver, your living expenses—"

"Enough!" Marco cut me off. "Elena, this is ugly."

Ugly?

His company had just gone public and he thought he was the wolf of Wall Street?

I was the one who got him into high society.

I pulled every string I had to get him in rooms with the real players.

To protect his fragile ego, I always let him take the credit.

He had no idea that for his first big pitch, the client wouldn't even meet with him.

I had to make one quiet call to Tony, pull one of our family’s strings, just to get him in the door.

"Marco, let me ask you something." I looked him straight in the eye. "Without the money from my 'paintings,' without my support, where would you be right now?"

His face darkened. "Elena, are you threatening me?"

"Threatening you?" I shook my head. "I'm stating a fact."

Isabella laughed. "Elena, do you really think money is all a man cares about?"

She stepped closer, the bracelet practically in my face.

"Marco needs a woman who understands him. A partner who shines in a crowd."

She paused, her voice turning sharp. "Not some weirdo who hides away in a studio, painting her creepy little pictures."

Marco said nothing.

His silence hurt more than anything.

Sofia giggled from the side.

She pointed at the huge, red-and-black abstract painting on the main wall.

"Isabella's right. Your paintings are... something else, Elena. It looks like a crime scene. All that red… it's a bad omen."

"It is," his mother added. "I've been meaning to suggest you hang something brighter. All that darkness is just depressing."

My heart seized.

The painting was called Embers of Memory.

I painted it after my parents' funeral.

Every slash of red on that canvas was me bleeding out my grief.

It was my only memorial to my past.

I had told Marco what it meant. That it was to remember my "parents."

And now, he just stood there while they called it trash.

I looked at him.

He just frowned and said, in a placating tone, "Elena, maybe they have a point. The guests are important. Perhaps... we could put the painting in storage, just for tonight? We can hang it back up after the party."

Just for tonight.

Like a piece of garbage to be hidden away.

The ice in my veins began to burn.

For ten years, I had played the part of a normal wife. In that moment, I was done with the game.

I was about to snap back when my phone buzzed.

A message from the P.I.

[Ms. Moretti, I have the results you wanted. Found something... shocking.]

A video and a report followed.

I stepped aside and opened the video. My heart stopped.