When The Principessa Strikes Back

We left early, allowing the younger generation to relax and enjoy the night.

As soon as I got into my bulletproof Maserati, I noticed the passenger seat had been disturbed.

Tucked into the crease of the passenger seat, I found a cross bracelet reeking of cheap perfume.

No one but me dared to make Lester Falcone their chauffeur, and no one was foolish enough to claim my seat.

It didn't take a genius to know who had been there.

A white-hot rage ripped through me.

I hated to admit it, but in that moment, I was so enraged my scalp prickled, all reason abandoning me.

Even learning Lester gave Bianca the necklace had only felt like mourning a lost antique.

But her leaving a trace of herself in *my* space—that was a declaration of war.

In five years of our alliance, I had never been this furious.

I wanted to slap Lester, kick him out of the car, and then find Bianca and tear her pretty face to shreds.

Just as I was about to confront him, his phone rang.

Lester, completely oblivious to my icy expression, calmly answered Bianca's call.

I clenched the tacky bracelet in my fist as I heard him say:

"Okay, don't worry. I'll be right there."

My hand froze. I slowly looked up at him.

Lester frowned slightly.

"Some guys are harassing Bianca at a bar. Her security isn't with her. I have to go."

"Rania, I'll call a driver to pick you up. You go home first."

My voice was laced with disbelief.

"You're leaving me on a dark suburban road for *this*?"

"Rania, don't make this difficult. She's just a girl. After what happened tonight, she was a wreck. Now she's in trouble."

"Is she *really* in trouble, or is this just another performance for your benefit? Can't she call her own people to handle it?"

Lester pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"Rania, do you enjoy bullying a newcomer?"

"When did you become so cruel? This isn't you."

The towering rage from moments before vanished, replaced by a cold wave of disappointment.

Suddenly, the whole situation felt laughable.

"I'm cruel?"

"Lester Falcone, you have never defended another woman in front of me. Not even your own mother. This is the first time."

A look of incomprehension crossed Lester's stern face.

"When we formed this alliance, we made a vow. For the honor of the Moretti and Falcone families, you wouldn't stray, and I wouldn't seek another. Are you breaking that vow for her?"

Lester's gaze was deep and cold.

After a long pause, he dialed for a driver anyway.

Finally, he leaned over, his hand hovering near my seatbelt, his tone deceptively calm.

"Rania, you're always so strong-willed… Can't you, just once, put the families aside? Try to be like other wives—rely on me, be a little softer?"

"After I deal with Bianca's situation, I'll stay at the Falcone estate for the night. We both need to cool down."

So that's how it was.

He was eager to play the hero for another woman.

But he used to say he admired my decisive, cutthroat style.

He was tired of it. Bored. Fine.

Why bother with some flimsy excuse and try to pin the blame on me?

I took the hint and got out of the car, watching the black sedan disappear from view.

I'd given him a chance. He'd thrown it away.

I picked up my phone and dialed my consigliere.

"Get the separation papers ready."

I had never wanted to take this step with Lester.

The elders of the Moretti and Falcone families were old friends, and Lester and I were childhood sweethearts.

But he was sent to headquarters in Italy for training, and we lost contact for ten years.

We met again at a banquet where our two families were planning to solidify their alliance.

He was polite and refined, effortlessly fielding the elders' questions.

And over the years, besides managing my family's legitimate businesses, I was no stranger to the world of flashing steel and back-alley deals.

I thought that after so many years apart, we would be distant.

To my surprise, when we were alone, I found a humorous and witty soul beneath his cold exterior.

It instantly rekindled the familiarity of our youth.

We were both ascending in our families, we respected each other's ambition, and we were engaged and married in short order.

After our marriage, our powers complemented each other, and the alliance between the Moretti and Falcone families became stronger than ever.

That was why dividing our power after dissolving the alliance would be an extremely messy affair.

When I got home, I showered, drank a glass of warm milk, and prepared for bed.

I received a goodnight text from Lester.

A kissing emoji.

Even when we were giving each other the cold shoulder, he always kept up appearances.

The next morning, as I headed to my art gallery, a young punk named Nico nearly bowled me over at the entrance.

My limited-edition crocodile skin handbag slammed to the ground, getting scuffed.

The coffee he was holding went flying, splashing across the hem of my bespoke coat.

Seeing this, the two bodyguards at the door rushed over.

They berated him for not watching where he was going.

The startled punk panicked. He picked up my bag and handed it to me, then pulled out a tissue to wipe at the stain on my coat.

When he saw it wouldn't come off, he grew so desperate he dropped to his knees, begging for my forgiveness.

He wore only a thin jacket and sunglasses against the late autumn chill, but they couldn't quite hide the bruises under his eyes.

I ignored the stain on my coat, my heart aching as I frowned and tenderly wiped at the scuff on my bag.

And that very scene was witnessed by Lester, who always left for work at the same time I did.

The Falcone family headquarters was just across the street from my gallery.

He stood on the other side, watching, his face cold and serious.

For the first time, I saw disgust in his eyes.

From his perspective, my aloof posture must have looked like I was bullying the weak.

I ignored his judgmental stare, taking two steps back and raising a hand to stop my approaching bodyguards before grabbing the punk’s arm and hauling him to his feet.

"A man never kneels. You can lose everything, but not your pride. It's the only thing that's truly yours."

The punk kept apologizing and thanking me as he cleaned up the mess on the ground.

Finally, he scurried away.

At the corner of the gallery, he turned back, a conspiratorial smirk on his lips.