The Underboss's Wife, Now His Queen

Katarina POV: The Rolls-Royce glided over the Brooklyn Bridge, the tires humming a low, monotonous tune against the wet asphalt. The silence inside the cabin was heavy. It pressed against my chest, thick and suffocating. Alessandro sat beside me. He yanked at his custom silk tie, his breathing ragged and uneven. He was annoyed. He was always annoyed lately. I knew what he was waiting for. He was waiting for me to break. He expected me to cry, to scream, to demand an explanation for the humiliation I had just endured at the auction. He was a billionaire heir, raised to believe that the people around him existed only to react to his whims. I didn't give him the satisfaction. I leaned my head against the cold, tinted window. I closed my eyes. My breathing remained perfectly steady, rising and falling in a calm, rhythmic cadence. The neon lights of the city flashed past, casting alternating shadows of red and blue across my face. I didn't flinch. Alessandro shifted in his leather seat. The rustle of his expensive suit filled the quiet space. He coughed, a deliberate, harsh sound meant to force my attention. I didn't even let my eyelashes flutter. I sat there as if he were nothing but empty air. In the front seat, the driver glanced at us through the rearview mirror. I saw his eyes widen slightly before he quickly snapped his gaze back to the road. A second later, the mechanical whir of the soundproof partition filled the car. The thick glass slid up, sealing us in our own private, suffocating box. The sound of that partition locking into place was deafening. Alessandro finally lost his patience. "If you want to throw a tantrum, do it in your room," he snapped, his voice dripping with cold disdain. I slowly opened my eyes. I turned my head and looked at him. I looked at his sharp jawline, his expensive clothes, his arrogant posture. And I felt nothing. It was the exact same absolute emptiness I had felt years ago, standing in the rain, watching my father walk away with his mistress. When people proved they were unreliable, my mind simply severed the connection. I didn't do heartbreak anymore. "Sorry," I said, my voice completely flat. "I'm tired." I turned my head back to the window and closed my eyes again. Alessandro choked on his next words. I heard the leather of his seat creak as his fists clenched tightly at his sides. He didn't speak again. The car turned onto the long, sweeping driveway of the Long Island estate. It rolled to a smooth stop in front of the grand marble steps. A bodyguard immediately pulled my door open. The crisp night wind rushed into the heated cabin, biting at my bare shoulders. I stepped out into the cold. I didn't look back. I didn't wait for Alessandro to join me. I gathered the heavy, cumbersome fabric of my evening gown in one hand and walked up the stone steps. My silver walking cane clicked rhythmically against the marble. Behind me, I could feel his eyes burning into my spine. He was standing by the car, watching me walk away. He was realizing that something fundamental was slipping right through his fingers. I pushed open the heavy oak door of my bedroom. I stepped inside and pushed the door shut behind me. I turned the deadbolt. A sharp *click* echoed in the massive room. I kicked off my heels. The carpet was soft against my bare feet. I walked straight past the massive king-sized bed, heading deep into my walk-in closet. I stopped in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror at the very back. I pressed my palm against the bottom right corner. A hidden latch clicked. The mirror swung open, revealing a small, dark alcove. It was a habit I had kept from my days surviving in the slums—always have a safehouse, always have a blind spot. Inside the alcove sat an old, unnetworked encrypted phone. I picked it up. The plastic felt heavy and familiar in my hand. My thumbs moved purely on muscle memory, punching in the sixteen-digit dynamic password. The screen flickered to life. A ghostly green light illuminated my face. Lines of code scrolled down the screen, showing the signal bouncing through multiple proxy servers across the globe. I dialed an eleven-digit overseas number. There was no contact name. It rang exactly once. "Oui?" a deep, gravelly voice answered in French. I didn't hesitate. My French was flawless, honed in the darkest corners of the European underworld. "Wake up all the dormant accounts," I ordered. "The hibernation is over. Let the hunt begin."