Chapter 1

I woke from Marco's embrace while he slept deeply, his chest rising and falling steadily. The face that struck terror into countless hearts in the mafia world now looked peaceful and harmless.

Three years. Three whole years I'd lain beside this man, pretending to love him, pretending to need him.

Marco rolled over, his arm instinctively reaching toward my side of the bed, but finding only empty space. He frowned slightly but didn't wake.

I slipped on my silk robe and headed toward the kitchen. The sound of running water came from the bathroom—Marco must be awake.

The kitchen in this Long Island mansion was as large as a commercial kitchen.

"Good morning, baby." Marco entered the kitchen, his hair still damp, wearing only low-rise jeans. His physique was well-maintained, with defined chest and abdominal muscles.

"Good morning." I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

He began preparing breakfast, skillfully cracking eggs and slicing bread. I leaned against the counter watching him, absent-mindedly listening to him hum some Italian tune.

Then he said those words.

"Bianca always liked her coffee with honey..."

His voice was soft, almost an unconscious murmur, but each word cut through my heart like a knife.

Marco paused, realizing what he'd said. He turned to look at me, a flash of guilt in his eyes.

"Sorry, Val. I..."

"It's okay." I forced myself to smile. "It's normal that you miss her."

Marco came over and held me, resting his chin on my shoulder. "You know I love you, right?"

"I know."

I'd told the lie so many times, I almost believed it myself.

After Marco left to handle business, I was alone in the mansion.

The living room was quiet except for the ticking of an antique clock. Above the fireplace hung a large photograph of a woman with long black hair and a sweet smile.

Bianca Torrino. Marco's first love and his eternal white moonlight.

Even though she'd been dead for five years, her photograph still occupied the most prominent position in this home. Every time I passed through the living room, I could feel her gaze from the photo, as if scrutinizing the impostor who had taken her place.

I approached the photograph and studied Bianca's face carefully.

"You're dead, yet you still torment us all," I whispered to the photo.

I saw myself in a mirror next to Bianca's photo on the dresser. My reflection and the dead woman on the wall were so similar that for a moment, I couldn't tell who was real.

Memories suddenly flooded back.

That was three years ago, when Alessandro was still alive. We lay in his small Brooklyn apartment bed as he gently caressed my face with his fingers.

"Val, once I finish dealing with the Santangelo matter, we'll get married." His voice was soft but firm.

"Are you sure you have to go?" I gripped his hand. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"It's just a negotiation, baby. The family needs peace." He kissed my forehead. "I promise, once I handle this, we'll leave here and start a new life on the West Coast."

But he never came back.

Marco Santangelo killed him at that so-called "peace negotiation."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Anger and grief slithered through my chest like venomous snakes, but I couldn't let them control me.

Revenge required patience and perfect timing.

When evening fell, Marco's mansion came alive. His subordinates often came by at night to report work and discuss business matters.

I usually stayed upstairs reading or watching TV, playing the role of an obedient girlfriend who didn't concern herself with "men's business." But in reality, I would sneak to the hallway outside his study, hiding in the shadows to eavesdrop on their conversations.

Tonight was no exception.

I pressed against the wall, observing the study through the door crack. Marco sat in his leather chair, Cuban cigar in hand, looking like a Roman emperor. Several of his trusted men sat around him: Sal Benedetto was his second-in-command, Tony Romano handled street operations, and Luigi Torrino—Bianca's cousin.

"How's the situation in Brooklyn?" Marco asked.

"Still quiet, Boss," Sal answered. "The Rossellini remnants have been laying low lately."

My heart lurched. Rossellini—that was Alessandro's surname.

"Good." Marco exhaled smoke. "After Alessandro died, they became headless chickens. That negotiation—he was too naive."

I bit down hard on my lip, almost breaking the skin.

"Boss, what about that girl?" Tony asked. "Alessandro's fiancée—I heard she disappeared."

"Don't worry about her." Marco waved dismissively. "Just an insignificant minor character. Even if she's still alive, she can't cause any real trouble."

Marco had no idea that "insignificant minor character" was right beside him, sharing his bed every night, waiting for the moment of revenge.

"We have other business to handle," Marco continued. "The New Jersey operations need expanding..."

I stopped listening and quietly returned to the bedroom.

When Marco finished his meeting and came back to the bedroom, I had already changed into the black lace nightgown he liked and was reading a magazine against the headboard.

"Sorry, baby, tonight's meeting ran a bit long." He came over and kissed my lips, his breath mixing alcohol and cigar scents.

"It's fine," I closed the magazine. "Business is important."

He began undressing, his movements slightly unsteady. Apparently he'd had quite a bit to drink tonight.

When Marco was drunk, he always became particularly sentimental and especially missed Bianca. I was used to this pattern.

Sure enough, when he lay beside me, he started his usual routine.

"Val, sometimes when I look at you, it's like seeing her..." his voice was slurred.

I turned to face him, reaching out to stroke his cheek. "I just want to be your Valentina, Marco."

"She died so suddenly." Marco continued, tears glistening in his alcohol-hazed eyes. "If she were still alive, we'd probably have children by now."

"Maybe," I replied softly.

Marco soon fell asleep, the alcohol making him sleep deeply. I lay beside him, listening to his steady breathing.

Alessandro, my love, my eternal fiancé. Marco thought everything was settled after you died, thought the Rossellini family could no longer pose a threat. But he was wrong.

I quietly got up and walked to the window, gazing out at the night.

Marco Santangelo thought he'd gotten a docile replacement, a perfect doll who could fill Bianca's void. But he was wrong.

I am Valentina Rossellini, and I came here with only one purpose—to make the killer of Alessandro pay the price.