The Underboss's Wife, Now His Queen

Katarina POV: The morning sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my bedroom, bright and entirely unwelcome. I sat on the velvet sofa, a thick English financial newspaper spread across my lap. I hadn't slept much, but my mind was razor-sharp. Downstairs, I knew exactly what was happening. Alessandro would be sitting at the long oak dining table. He would be cutting into his eggs Benedict. He would be looking at his gold Rolex, realizing that for the first time in three years, I had not come down to brew his black coffee. Three years of devotion. Three years of waking up at dawn to make sure his stomach didn't hurt. All of it erased in a single night. A timid knock at my door pulled me from my thoughts. "Come in," I said, not looking up from the stock indexes. Alessandro's special assistant walked in. He looked nervous. He held a small, square velvet box in his hands. "Madam," he said, his voice tight. "Mr. De Luca asked me to bring this to you." I slowly flipped a page of the newspaper. "Put it on the table." The assistant hesitated. "He wanted me to tell you that he hopes you slept well. And that... this is to make up for last night." I finally lifted my eyes. I looked at the velvet box. I didn't need to open it to know what it was. I could see the logo stamped in gold foil on the lid. It was a standard, off-the-shelf crushed diamond bracelet. Retail value: maybe a hundred thousand dollars. A hundred thousand dollars. To apologize for letting another woman humiliate me in public. To apologize for buying Aria a twenty-million-dollar pink diamond necklace right in front of my face. A wave of pure, physical nausea hit my stomach. The metallic taste of disgust coated my tongue. He actually thought I was a woman who could be bought off with loose change. He thought my dignity had a price tag, and a cheap one at that. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a movement near the fireplace. A young, Hispanic maid was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the soot from the marble hearth. Her uniform was slightly worn at the elbows. I closed the newspaper and tossed it onto the cushion beside me. I pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the velvet box. "You," I said, switching effortlessly to rapid, fluent Spanish. I remembered the cadence of the streets, the language of the women who had shared their stale bread with me when I had nothing. "Take that box. The bracelet inside will match your new Sunday dress perfectly." The maid froze. She dropped her rag. Her dark eyes widened in absolute terror and disbelief. The assistant gasped, his face draining of color. "Madam! You can't! That is Mr. De Luca's heart! His intention!" I stood up. I leaned heavily on my silver cane, but my posture was completely dominant. I stared the assistant down until he physically shrank back. "His heart?" I asked, my voice dropping to a freezing whisper. "His heart is worth a handful of crushed glass? If that is the case, then I have no use for it." The assistant opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was paralyzed by the sheer weight of my authority. I looked back at the maid. "Take it. Now. That is an order." The girl scrambled to her feet. She bowed her head, murmuring endless prayers of gratitude in Spanish, snatched the box, and bolted from the room. The assistant swallowed hard, bowed stiffly, and practically ran out after her. I walked toward the door to close it properly. As I reached for the handle, I heard voices floating down the hallway. "Look at this!" the maid was whispering excitedly to another girl in the corridor. "A hundred thousand dollars! The Madam just threw it at me!" "Ha," the other maid scoffed, her voice laced with heavy Spanish sarcasm. "That little tramp Aria in the guest room struts around with her necklace like she's a queen. But to the real Madam, a hundred grand is literal garbage." They giggled, covering their mouths, their footsteps fading down the stairs. I was about to shut my door when I saw a shadow move near the corner of the hallway. Aria. She was standing frozen by the decorative marble pillar. She was holding a glass of water. Her knuckles were white. Her chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths. I watched her reflection in the gilded mirror on the wall. She had heard every word. The maids had just ripped her poverty-stricken insecurities wide open. Her eyes were locked onto the door of my room. The raw, toxic hatred in her gaze was unmistakable. Then, her eyes shifted. She looked down the hall, toward the estate's private medical room. The room where my daily prescription painkillers were stored. Aria turned on her heel and walked purposefully toward the medical wing. I didn't stop her. I simply closed my door. "If you're so noble, then go be noble in hell."