The first thing I noticed was the smell.
Leather. Smoke.
That expensive cologne he wore like a warning. It hit the back of my throat the moment the doors opened, and for half a second my body betrayed me, remembering him the way it always did.
Heat. Weight. The hard press of his mouth against my pulse when he wanted me silent.
I hated that my skin could still recall him faster than my mind could.
"Walk."
The voice behind me wasn't his. It was one of his men. A hand landed on my elbow, not quite a shove, not quite a touch. Just control. I didn't stumble. I didn't give them that.
I lifted my chin and stepped into the room.
The council chamber was carved out of dark wood and power. Long table. High-backed chairs. Gold crest over the fireplace. The kind of space designed to make you feel small even when you weren't.
There were no women.
Of course there weren't.
Only men in suits that cost more than houses, faces like stone, eyes like knives.
Capos and soldiers and old men who had survived long enough to believe they were untouchable.
And at the head of the table, sitting like he owned the air...
Vittorio DeLuca.
My husband.
My Don.
My executioner.
He didn't stand when I entered. He didn't react at all. Not a flicker of surprise, not a sign that I'd once slept against his chest. He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on the armrest, the other tapping a slow rhythm against the table like he had time to waste.
His gaze met mine.
Cold.
Controlled.
And it still slid under my skin like a blade.
"Is this necessary?" I asked.
My voice didn't shake. I made sure of it.
The men around the table didn't answer. A few smirked, like they were waiting for the show. One of them, a broad-shouldered brute with a scar slicing through his eyebrow, leaned forward and spat the words like an insult.
"Necessary? You should be grateful you're breathing."
I recognized him. Marco. One of Vittorio's oldest capos. He'd never liked me. He thought women belonged in kitchens and graves.
His eyes swept over me like I was something stuck to his shoe.
"She's still wearing the DeLuca name,"
Marco added, looking at Vittorio as if I wasn't even present. "That's a stain."
A low chuckle came from somewhere down the table.
My jaw tightened. I didn't look away.
Vittorio finally spoke. Two words. Quiet. Deadly.
"Enough, Marco."
Marco shut his mouth instantly. Not because he respected me. Because he feared him.
Vittorio's gaze never left mine.
"Come closer," he said.
I didn't move.
He tilted his head slightly, as if amused by my hesitation.
"Don't make me repeat myself, Ivy."
Hearing my name in his mouth did something ugly to my pulse. It shouldn't have. I told myself it shouldn't have. But my body always reacted to him like it had been trained.
I walked forward, heels clicking against the floor, every step measured. Not rushed. Not submissive. Controlled.
I stopped a few feet from the table.
Close enough to smell him properly now. That scent. That damned scent.
It made my mind flash to a different room. A different table. My back against polished wood, his hand gripping my throat... not to hurt, but to hold. His mouth at my ear.
Mine.
I swallowed the memory down until it burned.
Vittorio's eyes flicked briefly to my throat.
Like he noticed the swallow. Like he noticed everything.
He slid a folder onto the table.
Paper. White. Crisp. Official-looking.
Then he tapped it once with his finger.
"Sign."
My gaze dropped to the folder.
And my stomach went cold.
Divorce documents.
Not just divorce.
Annulment. Legal and religious. Total erasure.
I let out a quiet laugh that held no humor.
"You dragged me into a room full of men to hand me this."
"I dragged you here," he corrected, "so there would be witnesses."
My fingers curled at my sides.
"To what?" I asked. "Your cruelty?"
A few of the men shifted, entertained. Hungry.
Vittorio didn't blink.
"To your disgrace," he said.
The words landed sharp.
I stared at him, waiting for the crack. The hint.
The sign that this was a tactic, a performance, something he didn't mean.
But he didn't give me anything.
He never did.
"You don't get to disgrace me," I said, voice low. "You married me."
At that, Marco laughed openly.
"Married," he echoed. "You call that marriage? She couldn't even do the one thing she was brought in for."
I looked at Marco slowly, letting him feel the full weight of my attention.
"I wasn't brought in," I said. "I wasn't purchased. I wasn't a contract."
Vittorio's mouth twitched. Not a smile. More like irritation.
"You were chosen," he said. "And you failed."
My blood heated.
"Failed," I repeated. "Because I didn't get pregnant on your schedule?"
Silence.
Heavy. Sharp.
Vittorio leaned forward slightly. His elbows didn't touch the table. He didn't need to. He commanded it without contact.
"You were examined," he said. "Twice."
My stomach tightened.
I knew. Of course I knew. His doctors. His tests. His constant, quiet pressure dressed up as care.
Every month I bled, I saw the disappointment on his face even when he tried to hide it.
"You signed consent," he added, as if he was reciting something boring.
"I signed because you made it impossible to say no," I shot back.
One of the men, young, slick, cruel in a tailored suit, leaned toward the others, whispering loud enough for me to hear.
"She's got a mouth on her. That's why he's tired of her."
A ripple of laughter.
My cheeks stayed still. My eyes stayed dry.
Vittorio lifted his hand.
Instant silence again.
He turned the folder toward me, opening it with deliberate calm, like he was serving a meal.
Inside was a document with a signature at the bottom.
His signature.
And above it, typed in clinical language, was a statement.
Infertile. Unable to conceive. Unfit to provide an heir.
My vision sharpened.
The room seemed to tilt.
I read it again to make sure my brain wasn't inventing it.
My throat tightened hard.
"You forged this," I said.
Vittorio didn't deny it.
He looked at me like I was slow.
"I authorized it."
My hands went cold.
"You can't..."
"I can," he cut in, voice calm, almost bored. "And I did."
A murmur ran through the table. Approval. Interest.
Vittorio's gaze swept the men around him as if giving them permission to witness what came next.
Then he looked back at me.
"You will sign the annulment," he said, "and you will leave with nothing."
I let out another laugh. This one rougher.
"Nothing," I repeated. "You think I married you for money?"
His eyes narrowed a fraction.
"You married me because your family wanted protection," he said. "Because you wanted safety."
That landed too close to truth.
My mouth tightened.
"I married you because you asked," I said.
"Because you looked me in the eyes and told me I'd be treated like a wife."
A pause.
Vittorio's stare didn't waver.
"And you were," he said.
The lie was so clean it almost sounded real.
My nails pressed into my palms.
"You slept with me," I said, voice lower now, sharper. "You put your hands on me like I was yours. You don't get to erase me because your body didn't do what you wanted."
His jaw flexed once.
I saw it. The smallest crack.
And it made my chest tighten in the most dangerous way.
For a moment, his gaze dipped.
Not to my face.
To my left hand.
My rings.
The engagement ring. The wedding band.
Gold. Heavy. Symbolic.
The room felt like it was holding its breath.
Then Vittorio looked back up and said, quiet enough that only I could hear...
"You were never supposed to matter."
It was the cruelest thing he'd said so far.
Because it wasn't loud.
It wasn't for the men.
It was just for me.
I stared at him, trying not to blink. Trying not to let anything show.
"Then why bring me here?" I asked. "Why not just send the papers?"
His eyes stayed on mine.
"Because you need to learn," he said.
My pulse thudded.
"Learn what?"
His voice dropped lower.
"What happens to women who believe they can stand beside kings."
Marco leaned forward again, enjoying himself.
"Take them off," he said, nodding toward my rings. "If you're not a DeLuca, you don't wear DeLuca gold."
My gaze flicked to Vittorio.
He didn't stop him.
He didn't defend me.
He just watched.
Like he wanted to see what I would do.
Fine.
I exhaled slowly.
Then I lifted my left hand.
The engagement ring slid off first, stubborn and tight like it didn't want to leave. My fingers shook once... just once...then steadied. I placed it on the table in front of Vittorio.
The sound was small.
But in that room, it landed like a gunshot.
Then I pulled off the wedding band.
That one slid easier. Almost like it had been waiting.
I set it beside the first.
Two circles of gold.
Two pieces of myself.
I kept my gaze on him while I did it.
Not begging. Not pleading.
Letting him see that I was still here.
Still standing.
Still breathing.
"You wanted witnesses," I said quietly. "Good."
Vittorio's eyes didn't leave the rings.
For a second...only a second... I saw something tighten at the corner of his mouth.
Not regret.
Not softness.
Something more dangerous.
Possession.
Like even when he was throwing me away, the idea of me leaving still offended him.
I pushed the folder back toward him.
"I'm not signing," I said.
The room shifted.
A few men murmured, surprised.
Marco's face darkened instantly.
"You don't get to refuse," he snapped, half rising from his chair.
Vittorio lifted his hand again.
Marco froze.
Vittorio's gaze lifted slowly back to mine.
His voice was soft.
"That wasn't a request."
I felt the old fear try to crawl up my spine.
Not because he would hit me.
He'd never hit me.
That was the problem.
He didn't need to.
He could destroy me without ever raising his voice.
"I know," I said. "But you're forgetting something."
A pause.
His eyes sharpened.
"What?"
I leaned forward slightly, keeping my voice low so the others had to strain to hear.
"You can erase my name," I said. "You can forge papers. You can humiliate me in a room full of men who hate women for breathing."
I held his gaze.
"But you can't make me disappear."
His stare turned lethal.
"And yet," he murmured, "you're about to try."
The air in the room thickened.
My heart hit once, hard.
"What did you do?" I asked.
Vittorio reached into the folder and pulled out another sheet. He slid it toward me without touching my hand.
A public statement.
A press release, already drafted.
The Don of the DeLuca Family Announces Annulment Due to Wife's Infertility.
Below that...
New Engagement to Be Announced Within Thirty Days.
My stomach dropped.
A new engagement.
Arranged.
Of course it was arranged.
And the worst part...
He was faithful. He always had been. Cold, controlled, brutal, but faithful. There had never been another woman.
So if there was a new fiancée now…
It meant I was being replaced like a position.
Like a chair.
Like a problem.
The men around the table looked pleased. Satisfied. Like the family line had been "fixed."
I felt my lungs tighten.
"You're engaged," I said.
Vittorio's eyes stayed on mine.
"Soon."
The word was nothing.
But it cut.
I forced my face still.
"And you expect me to just… leave."
His gaze didn't flicker.
"I expect you to do what you're told," he said.
My throat burned.
The memory of his smell wrapped around my head, unwelcome and sharp. The way he used to come up behind me, fingers sliding over my hip, mouth at my neck...
Not love.
Ownership.
I realized something then, with sick clarity.
This wasn't about heirs.
This was about control.
If I walked out without signing, I wasn't just an ex-wife.
I was a loose end.
A risk.
A woman who knew too much.
Vittorio leaned forward, voice low enough that the others wouldn't hear every word.
"You will sign," he said, "or you will become a problem I have to solve."
I stared at him.
My pulse hammered.
"You'd kill me."
He didn't answer.
That was his answer.
A few of the men shifted again, watching me like I was entertainment.
Marco's smile was ugly.
"Sign it," he said. "Or we'll make sure you can't write again."
A cold, brutal threat.
My stomach clenched, but I didn't flinch.
I looked at Vittorio.
One last time.
"Say it," I demanded quietly. "Say to my face that you want me dead."
Something moved in his eyes then.
A flicker.
Not mercy.
Not guilt.
Something like restraint.
Like he was holding back something he didn't want to show.
His voice came out calm.
"I don't want you dead," he said.
Relief tried to rise...
And then he finished.
"I want you gone."
My chest went tight.
I nodded once.
Slowly.
"Fine," I said.
And I stepped back from the table.
The men watched, hungry for a breakdown. A tear. A plea.
They didn't get it.
I turned, walking toward the doors without looking back.
Behind me, I heard Marco's voice, amused.
"She's proud. She'll beg later."
I kept walking.
I reached the doors.
The guard opened them.
And the cold air of the corridor hit my face like a slap.
I didn't stop until I was out of the chamber and moving through the mansion halls that had once been mine.
Once.
Every step felt like leaving skin behind.
When I reached the front entrance, the massive doors opened.
The morning was bright. Sharp. Cruel.
A car was waiting at the bottom of the steps, black, tinted windows.
Not my car.
Not a driver I recognized.
My pulse sharpened.
I slowed.
One of Vittorio's men stepped beside me, close enough that I could feel his breath.
"Don't make a scene," he murmured. "Get in."
I stared at the car.
My instincts screamed.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
The back door of the car opened.
And a man inside leaned forward, his face half-hidden, his voice smooth as oil.
"Congratulations," he said softly. "You're officially a problem now."
My heart slammed.
I took one step back.
A hand gripped my wrist... hard.
"Move," the guard hissed.
I twisted, trying to pull free.
The man in the car smiled wider.
"Oh," he added, almost amused, "and the Don says… if you scream, we break your fingers first."
The world narrowed to one brutal point.
Air. Threat. Steel.
And the smell of Vittorio's cologne still clung to my skin like I'd never really left him at all.
I looked down at the hand crushing my wrist.
Then I looked at the car.
And I made a choice.
I stopped fighting.
I let my face go blank.
And I stepped toward the open door.
Because if they wanted me gone…
I'd go.
But not the way they expected.
Not obedient.
Not erased.
Not dead.
I slid into the car.
The door slammed shut.
And the man beside me leaned close, voice a whisper against my ear.
"Run, Ivy," he murmured. "Because if you don't… you won't survive the week."
The car started moving.
And I realized, with a cold, sick clarity...
This was only the beginning.