After the Mafia Council's memory-stripping procedure, I forgot Damian Moranti— the Don, my husband, the man I'd loved for seven years. I forgot the parents who had branded me a disgrace. With a body torn raw by ninety-nine lashes, I walked out of the Mafia world for good. Everyone assumed I was just throwing a tantrum. They thought I'd come crawling back soon enough, unable to give up the privileges of being a Donna, begging the family for shelter. Until the day a convoy of black sedans surrounded my wedding venue, and armed Mafia enforcers locked down the entire area in seconds. A secretary from the Moranti family pushed through the crowd to me and demanded. "All these years—why have you never once contacted Don Damian? Do you have any idea he's waited five years for you?" I tightened my grip on my husband's arm and asked, genuinely puzzled, "I'm sorry. Who is… Damian?" The air froze. A short distance away, a man in a black suit stood absolutely still. His eyes rimmed red, staring at me as though I might vanish if he so much as blinked. … … The day I discovered my husband Damian was sleeping with my cousin Isabel, our wedding had only just ended. The guests hadn't even left, and I couldn't find my new husband anywhere. I gathered up the train of my dress and went from one empty guest room to another, until I finally found him on the terrace of our bridal suite. Beneath the moonlight, Damian Moranti—heir to the Moranti family, the next Don—had my cousin Isabel pressed up against the railing. Isabel's gown was shoved up around her waist, her legs locked around him. Most of the buttons on Damian's shirt were undone. One of his hands gripped the railing; the other cupped the back of her neck as he kissed her, deep and frantic. Their breathing carried sharp and clear on the night wind. I stood in the shadow of the French doors, and somehow my heart slowed instead of racing. So here it was again. Everything in my life eventually ended up in Isabel's hands. Isabel was my uncle's orphaned daughter. Her parents had taken bullets meant for my father during an arms deal. From the time she was twelve, she'd lived under our roof. I sent her to the best schools, brought her into my social circle, arranged a respectable, comfortable office position for her in the family business. She was bright, sweet, charming with everyone—a soft, blooming rose. My friends, the elders of the family, even my own parents—their attitude toward her had shifted from polite acceptance to genuine, undisguised favoritism. "Isabel is so much more likable than you." I'd been hearing that since I was a child. And now, even my husband of seven years was no exception. I stepped out of the shadow. My heels rang sharp against the marble tiles, and at last they heard me. Damian whipped his head around. I walked up to him, raised my hand, and slapped him across the face. What happened next happened very fast. I just heard Isabel scream and lunge forward, grabbing my arm. "Victoria—don't hit Damian, it's all my fault—" Then something shoved me backward, hard. My back struck the railing, and my whole body pitched over the edge. Wind howled past my ears. When I woke up, I was in the family's private medical center, and Damian was sitting beside my bed. He looked like he'd been in that chair a long time. But the moment my eyes met his, I knew—he wasn't here to ask after my injuries. "Victoria, what happened tonight… it was an accident. I had too much to drink. I mistook her for someone else. It will absolutely never happen again." He paused, weighing his words. "Don't blame Isabel. It was all my fault. And you know she's struggled with depression ever since she lost her parents. She's been through enough. Don't hold it against her, all right?" I looked at him, and a small, bitter laugh almost escaped me. "Damian, the only reason you're saying any of this is because you're afraid I'll make a scene. Afraid it'll affect Isabel's standing in the family. Right?" His face darkened. His fingers clamped around my wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to remind me, very precisely, who held the authority in this room. "Victoria, you're the Donna now. Every move you make reflects on the family." "This ends here. Don't drag everyone into something uncomfortable." The warning was naked in his eyes. Once, I would have agreed without hesitation. Now I just turned my gaze quietly away. He looked like he had more to say, but at that moment his second-in-command Carlo pushed open the door and murmured something near his ear. I caught the words Isabel and too distraught. Damian stood at once, tugged his cuffs straight, and slipped back into that clipped, professional tone: "There's a problem with a shipment at the border. I have to handle it. Get some rest. And this matter—it ends here." He emphasized it once more, then turned and walked out fast, without looking back. He didn't return for the rest of the night. I lay there for I don't know how long, watching the sky begin to lighten at the edge of the window. Then I picked up my phone and dialed the family Council. "I'm petitioning to leave the family." The voice on the other end registered surprise. "Victoria? You're the Donna. Do you have any idea what leaving the family means?" "You don't get out without having your skin flayed off by the lash and surviving the agony of the memory-removal procedure!" "I know." "Then you—" "I've made up my mind." My voice was steady and clear. "I'm leaving." A silence. Then the voice resumed its customary chill. "The Council will accept your application through confidential channels. In seven days, if you survive, you'll be free to go." "Good." I hung up the phone and slept better than I had in years. On the third evening, I came back to the estate alone from the medical center. I pushed open the door of the great room and stepped into a party in full swing. "Beautiful work, Isabel—three new clients at the arms expo!" "Made the family proud!" Isabel stood in the center of the crowd, wearing a perfectly calibrated smile of modesty. Damian stood beside her, posture relaxed, an unmistakable look of approval in his eyes. The atmosphere chilled the moment they noticed me. A flicker of discomfort crossed Damian's face. He stepped forward. "Vic? Why did you come back on your own? You should've called—I would've sent someone." He reached out by reflex to support me. I stepped sideways to avoid him. "What? Am I disturbing you all by coming home?" The air turned awkward. "Of course not." Damian recovered, and pressed an elegantly wrapped little box into my hand. "Perfect timing. This is a gift we got for Isabel to celebrate. She's done so much for you—it should come from you." I didn't want to argue. I simply held the box out. Isabel reached for it. But the moment our fingers touched, the box dropped, and the jade ornament inside shattered into pieces on the floor. Isabel's eyes brimmed instantly with tears. "Victoria… you still won't forgive me, will you? I really didn't mean to that night… I've been so worried about you…" Every gaze in the room swung onto me. "Victoria, that's enough. Think how hard things are for Isabel." "She saved your family. Today is her celebration. Can't you let her enjoy one peaceful day?" I looked at them. My eyes settled, last, on the face full of disappointment. The husband I had loved for seven years. "Enough." Damian's voice wasn't loud, but it carried that weight that didn't need to be raised to make a room go silent. He came over to me, leaned down, and spoke low—just for the two of us. "Victoria, stop making a scene. We've talked about this. It's over. Even if you're upset, look at where we are." His hand pressed down on my shoulder, the gesture intimate on its surface, but the pressure increasing steadily, pushing me down without a word. I drew in a breath, turned my body, and shrugged his hand off. "That won't be necessary. I came back to pack. I'm moving out."
The words were barely out of my mouth before Isabel burst into tears. "Victoria, what does that mean… are you trying to drive me away?" She turned to Damian, the tears spilling down her cheeks, her voice thin and helpless. "Damian, you promised me…" Damian's brows pulled into a deep furrow. When he looked at me, the thin layer of patience in his tone had vanished entirely. "Victoria, do you really have to push this to this point?" I opened my mouth to explain. I didn't get the chance. "Victoria! You've gone too far!" "You're throwing Isabel out? How is she supposed to survive on her own?" "Her parents died saving your father, and this is how you treat her?" The voices came at me from all sides, pinning me where I stood. And my personal secretary, Natalie—the woman I'd thought of as a sister—stood there with one hand patting Isabel's back, giving me a pained, reluctant look. "Victoria, please stop targeting Isabel… she's already suffered enough." I looked at Natalie. Three years ago, she'd been bound to a chair as a hostage, covered in blood. I had crept alone into that abandoned warehouse, taken out two guards, and carried her on my back for three city blocks. Afterward she had clung to me, sobbing, swearing she would never forget what I'd done for her as long as she lived. Now she stood across from me, taking the side of the woman who'd slept with my husband. "Natalie, this is a private family matter. And what I said was that I'm the one moving—" "That's enough, Victoria." Damian's voice cut me off. One arm wrapped around Isabel's shoulders; the other extended in front of her, shielding her like something fragile and precious. "Natalie's only speaking up for Isabel out of fairness. The truth is, you're still holding a grudge over that night. But Isabel has suffered enough. If you have a problem, take it out on me. There's no reason to take it out on her." His eyes were ice, fixed on me. In that instant, it struck me that explanation was the most pointless thing in the world. I swallowed back what I'd been about to say and turned to leave. Isabel suddenly lunged forward and seized my arm, her nails biting into my skin. The tears came harder. "Victoria, please don't be angry… I promise I'll never speak to Damian again from now on…" I jerked my arm on instinct, trying to shake her off. I really hadn't used much force. But Isabel went stumbling backward and crashed onto the carpet. I reached out to help her up. Damian shoved me away. The force of it sent me staggering two steps back. "Don't touch her!" He crouched at once and gathered Isabel up like a piece of porcelain that might fall apart in his hands. It was the first time I'd ever seen him so undone, and a dull pain bloomed in my chest. "Damian, my ankle… I think I twisted it…" Isabel's voice trembled, her weakness pitched at exactly the right note. Damian lifted her and stood. When his eyes turned to me, there was nothing in them but cold and disappointment. "You knew her health was fragile, and you still did this." He carried Isabel toward the door. As he passed me, he didn't look back. "Victoria, you are a disgrace to both families." A disgrace to both families. Those words went through me like a knife, from sternum to spine. Once they were spoken, every other person heading for the door turned to look at me with mocking amusement. I stayed where I was, spine ramrod-straight, refusing to bend. The last young man to pass me deliberately raised his voice. "Some people just can't stand to see anyone do better than them. Grown woman, jealous of the person who saved her family. No conscience at all." My lashes trembled, just barely. Then it was quiet, as if the entire world had been emptied out and only I was left. No—maybe a long, long time ago, I had only ever had myself. The light was failing. I picked up my coat and walked out. The Council's chamber was on the east side of the city, three stories beneath an unremarkable gray building. Iron doors, code locks, signal jamming—it was the coldest heart of the Mafia world. The man receiving me was an older Council member, hair neatly combed, every strand in place. His eyes were a cold, washed-out white, like a machine wearing the shape of a person. "As Donna, you should know what's in your head—the family's dealings, networks, contacts up and down the chain. None of it can leave with you." "I know," I said. "The memory-removal procedure is scheduled for three days from now. But before that—" He opened an iron door behind him. Inside was a dim cell. Cement floor. A single iron post, with newly-replaced leather restraints around its base. In one corner sat a bucket of saltwater and a soaked rawhide whip. "Ninety-nine lashes." His voice was without inflection. "This is the price every member who chooses to leave must pay." Then, finally, he raised his eyes to mine. "You still have the right to choose." I didn't answer. I walked to the post, and without hesitation took off my coat. Two large men in black suits stepped out of the dark, and a moment later I was lifted off my feet, my wrists bound to the post above my head. Behind me there was only the whoosh of leather slicing through air as they warmed up. Then— "Begin." Crack. The first lash came down. I bit through the wooden block in my mouth. The saltwater-soaked rawhide tore into my skin like red-hot wire being driven into flesh, then ripped out again. The second lash. The third. The pain spread from my back through my whole body, blackness pulsing across my vision. My blouse soaked through with blood, plastered to my back, the fabric tearing free of the wounds with every new strike. I didn't make a sound. I closed my eyes, and the images rose behind my lids—Damian's open shirt, Isabel's legs locked around his waist, his back as he carried her away without a single look back. By the time the ninety-ninth lash landed, there wasn't an inch of unbroken skin left on my back. Blood ran down past my waistband and pooled in a small dark puddle on the cement. The old Council member tossed the keys to the man beside him and stamped a document without lifting his head. "Three days from now, eight a.m., come back here for the memory extraction. After that, you'll have forgotten everything connected to this world." "Then you'll be free." I lay face-down on the freezing concrete, shaking from head to foot, unable to tell anymore whether it was pain or cold. But there was only one thought in my head. Three days. Just three more days. I would forget everything about Damian, and then I would be gone from him—completely.
The men in black suits dumped me at the gates of the estate. The night air was thick with dew. No servant came out to ask whether the unimportant Donna had returned safely. Certainly none of the people gathered around the traumatized Isabel. I didn't have the strength to climb the stairs. I sank sideways onto the great-room sofa and wrapped a throw blanket around myself. My back stuck to the fabric, and every breath tugged at fresh wounds. I don't know how much time passed before the click of the front door turning startled me awake. Footsteps—soft, the muffled tread of dress shoes on carpet. A lamp clicked on, and in its yellowish light, Damian was standing in front of the sofa. He was still in his suit. Stubble had darkened his jaw. He didn't look like he'd slept either. "Why are you sleeping out here?" He sat down on the arm of the sofa, and only then did I see the long box in his hand. Inside lay a silver chain holding a polished bullet, its surface gleaming, set in a platinum mount. "Came to see you. Brought this with me." I glanced at it and didn't move. "You didn't have to make a special trip." He shook his head. "This chain isn't like the others." He set the box on the coffee table and absently brushed his fingers across the pendant, his gaze going somewhere far away. "It makes me think about the years we've had together… that ambush in the south district warehouse, seven years ago. You took that bullet for me. Half an inch from your heart. Do you remember?" Of course I remembered. After they'd dug it out, he'd had the bullet polished into a pendant and put it around my neck himself. He had taken my hand and said— "From this day on, my heart belongs only to you." But now, the words stirred nothing in me at all. "We've been through so much together." He lowered his voice, deliberately gentle. "We've survived so many close calls. To freeze each other out over something like this… Victoria, it really isn't worth it." Something like this. "Vic—" He leaned closer. The lamplight fell across my face. "You look terrible. What's wrong?" He reached out to touch my face. I flinched away on instinct. His hand froze midair. And just like that, the small flicker of real concern in his voice was gone. "Things have been hard for Isabel in the family lately. There's gossip everywhere—saying she seduced your husband, that she traded on her debt to your father. Her depression was bad enough to begin with. Now she's worse. She can't even function at work." He looked at me, his gaze steady, expectant—as if what he was about to say was the most natural thing in the world. "Have a word with the Council. Get the rumors shut down. Say you were mistaken about that night at the wedding. Get her back to her position." I looked at him. The lamp threw his shadow against the wall, his profile sharp and beautiful as ever. But every expression on his face was one I knew intimately—he wasn't asking. He was assigning. "Damian, in what capacity am I supposed to do this? As your wife?" He raised an eyebrow, as if it were a stupid question. "You are my wife." "But I don't want to be anymore." The air froze for half a second. Confusion shifted to anger on his face, fast. "Victoria, would you stop with this." "How many times do I have to explain that what happened that night was an accident? How many more childish things are you going to say before you're satisfied?" I didn't argue. Argument requires hope, and mine had drained out with the ninety-nine lashes. He must have read my silence as surrender. His tone softened a little. "Get some rest tonight. Take care of the situation with Isabel as soon as you can." He stood up and smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt. "I'm going to the hospital to check on Isabel. She needs someone with her." The door closed. His footsteps faded. I reached out and pulled the jewelry box toward me. The silver bullet pendant glinted coldly in the lamplight. But on the side of the mount, etched into the platinum, was not the V I remembered. It was a tiny line of script: LOVE ISA. I turned the pendant over three times to be sure. Then I got up, walked into the bedroom, and opened the safe. My own necklace was lying inside, untouched. Engraved on the back of its bullet pendant was a single V. The one he had brought me wasn't mine. It was the one he had given Isabel. I stared at those two small words for a long time. Then I laughed once, softly. And as I laughed, the tears came. So a long, long time ago, he had already given his heart to someone else. I returned both necklaces to the safe and locked it. Then I started packing. I didn't have much. One suitcase, a few changes of clothes, my passport, my own gun. Before sunrise, I'd submitted all the transfer paperwork, and I was checked into a motel in town. The motel room was small. Nothing like the perfectly climate-controlled air of the estate. But I had never felt so at peace. The day before the procedure, my phone rang. It was Damian. I hesitated three seconds, then answered. "Get to the family medical center. Now. That's an order." His voice was hard, edged with the tone of a man who expected obedience. I hadn't yet completed the formal departure. Legally, I was still under Moranti jurisdiction. I had no right to refuse. But the moment I stepped onto the inpatient floor, I saw a row of people lining the hallway, and the air was deadly. Damian saw me, and his face caught fire. He crossed the space in three strides and grabbed my upper arm. The lash wounds on my back—still raw beneath the black fabric—exploded into pain. "Tell me! Why did you do this?" "You knew Isabel lost her parents young. You knew about her depression. And you sent someone to terrorize her?" "Victoria, when did you get so vicious?" It was about Isabel. Always Isabel. "It wasn't me. I haven't seen her this entire time." The next instant, a slap landed across my face. It was my mother, Helen, whom I hadn't seen in months. The day of my wedding, she had told me family business was too pressing for her to attend. But here she was now, ashen, eyes red-rimmed, looking at me with pure hatred—on Isabel's behalf. "Victoria! Are you even human?" Her hands were shaking. So was her voice. "Isabel is your sister! I treated Isabel like my own daughter! How could you do this?" My father, Vincent, stood behind her. What he said cut deeper than any slap. "The greatest regret of my life is bringing a monster like you into this world."
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