The Underboss's Wife, Now His Queen

Katarina De Luca POV I was walking through the corridor leading to the tack room when I saw it. Alessandro was standing there, holding a black velvet box. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pulled out a custom-made riding helmet. It was black, sleek, and polished to a mirror shine, with the De Luca crest engraved in silver on the side. He placed it gently on Aria's head, fastening the strap under her chin. His fingers lingered on her jawline, a touch that was far too intimate for a simple gift. "Perfect," he said softly. The air left my lungs. Three years ago, he had commissioned a similar helmet for me. It was a symbol of my acceptance into the inner circle. It was supposed to mean I belonged. I walked to my locker. My helmet was sitting on the top shelf, covered in a thin layer of dust. A sharp, jagged pain sliced through my chest. It wasn't just about the objects. It was the transfer of privilege. The transfer of status. I grabbed my gear. I needed to ride. I needed to feel the wind in my face, to outrun the suffocation of this house before it crushed me completely. I saddled the most temperamental mare in the stable, a black beast named Fury. The grooms looked at me with concern, stepping forward to assist, but I waved them off. My hands were shaking with rage as I tightened the girth, too blind with anger to double-check the equipment. I rode into the jumping ring. Alessandro and Aria were at the far end, laughing. They didn't look up. I urged Fury into a gallop. The rhythm of her hooves pounded against the earth, matching the frantic pounding of my heart. There was a high oxer jump ahead. It was dangerous. It was exactly what I needed. "Fly," I whispered. We launched into the air. For a second, I felt weightless. I felt free. Then, I heard a snap. The girth strap holding my saddle gave way. Gravity took over. The saddle slid sideways violently. I lost my stirrups. I hit the ground hard. The impact knocked the wind out of me. A sickening crack echoed from my right leg. Pain exploded. It was a white-hot fire consuming my body, blinding me, stealing my voice. I lay in the dirt, gasping for air. Through the haze of agony, I looked toward the other end of the ring. Alessandro hadn't moved. He was still talking to Aria. He hadn't even turned his head. I realized then that I could die right here, and he wouldn't notice until the silence became inconvenient. "Help!" I screamed, my voice ragged and broken. A groom ran over, his face pale. * An hour later, I was in the family's private medical wing. My leg was in a cast, elevated on stiff pillows. Alessandro finally walked in. He was holding a bouquet of generic lilies. The kind you buy at a gas station as an afterthought. "You should be more careful," he said, placing the flowers on the bedside table. He didn't sit down. "The saddle broke," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "Equipment fails." He shrugged, a dismissive roll of his broad shoulders. "I'll have the grooms check it." He adjusted the blanket over my feet. His touch was mechanical. He was fulfilling a duty. There was no worry in his eyes, only annoyance that his afternoon had been interrupted. "Rest," he said. "I have business." He walked out. That night, the pain kept me awake. I stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. I heard voices in the hallway. "It's just a broken leg, Mark," Alessandro's voice drifted through the door. "She's had worse. Stop acting like it's a tragedy." "The buckle was filed down, Alessandro." Mark's voice was low, urgent. "It wasn't an accident. Aria was seen near her tack locker this morning." My heart stopped. There was a silence. A long, heavy silence. "She was just trying to teach Katarina a lesson," Alessandro said finally. "Katarina embarrassed her with the credit card thing. Let it go." "But boss—" "I said let it go." Cold. Absolute, freezing cold washed over me. It started in my toes and rushed up to my scalp. He knew. He knew she had sabotaged my saddle. He knew she could have killed me. And he didn't care. He was protecting her. He was allowing her to hunt me. I closed my eyes. A single tear leaked out, hot against my cold skin. I didn't wipe it away. I let it dry. I didn't scream. I didn't throw the vase of lilies against the wall. I lay there in the dark, and I made a promise to the ceiling. I would not say another word about this. I would not complain. I would endure. Because silence is the loudest scream of a woman who is done.