Chapter 2

Alessia POV:

Santino walked in just as Valentina's fingers fumbled with the top button of his shirt. His eyes, dark and stormy, landed on me.

"What the hell are you doing, Alessia?" he snarled.

"I'm restoring a little dignity to this house," I said, not taking my eyes off Valentina's panicked face.

"You're harassing a pregnant, grieving woman. You're destroying our family's unity." His voice was low, a dangerous growl that once would have made me shrink. Now, it just fueled the ice in my veins.

He stepped between us, putting a protective hand on Valentina's shoulder. "She's carrying Marco's child. It's my duty to care for her. You need to understand that. You need to show some compassion."

The hypocrisy was so thick I could taste it. Duty. He talked of duty while he disrespected our vows, our family bond, right in front of me.

"I understand perfectly," I said, my voice sharp. "You've made your priorities clear. So I'll make mine clear, too. I want an annulment."

The word hung in the air, heavy and shocking. In our world, marriage was a sacrament, a binding contract between families. Annulment was a declaration of war.

Santino's face went rigid. For a second, I thought he might actually see the abyss that had opened between us.

Then he scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. You're emotional." He waved a dismissive hand. "You want a new car? I'll buy you a new car. You want another house? Pick one."

He thought he could buy my silence, my compliance. He had no idea who he was dealing with anymore. He was still talking to the ghost of the girl I used to be.

That's when Valentina started her performance. A single tear tracked down her cheek. Her bottom lip trembled. "Oh, Santino," she whispered, her voice choked with manufactured sorrow. "This is all my fault. I've come between you. I should just go..."

It was a masterstroke of manipulation, and Santino fell for it completely.

"No," he said, his voice instantly softening as he turned his full attention to her. He pulled her into a gentle hug. "You're not going anywhere. Don't listen to her. She's just upset."

He glared at me over Valentina's head, his eyes filled with accusation. He was protecting his liaison partner from his wife.

My anger, cold and precise, found its voice. "You stand there and comfort her after you spent last night massaging her feet in my kitchen?" The words were quiet, but they hit him like a physical blow.

Valentina, sensing his resolve wavering, upped the ante. Her quiet tears turned into shuddering sobs. "I can't stay here," she cried into his chest. "I can't be the reason your marriage falls apart. I'll go. I'll raise the baby alone..."

It was the perfect move. The threat of leaving, of taking the last piece of his dead brother away, cemented his misplaced sense of protection.

He held her tighter, completely ignoring the fact that I was still in the room. He ignored the pain etched on my face, the finality in my voice.

"This is your safe harbor, Valentina," he murmured to her, his voice a low promise. "This is your home. You will never, ever leave."

It was the final insult. He had given her my home, my husband, my life.

He didn't even look at me. He just stood there, stroking her hair, whispering comforting words to her. In that moment, I wasn't his wife. I wasn't even there.

And that was the moment Alessia Bianchi, the wife, died. And Alessia Bianchi, the thorned rose ready for her bloody revenge, was fully born.