Chapter 3

Chloe's POV

Vincent's grip was shockingly strong, his fingers clamping around my wrists like iron. He yanked me back hard.

Thud.

My spine slammed into the solid bedpost, pain exploding down my back until my vision went dark around the edges.

"Chloe, have you completely lost your mind?!"

Vincent didn't spare me a single glance. The first thing he did was pull Camila into his arms, checking her throat with frantic care. His voice was drenched in concern. "Are you hurt? That woman is a raving lunatic."

Camila's hand was on her neck, coughing prettily, eyes glittering with triumph even as her voice shook with tears. "Vincent, don't blame Chloe. She must be in shock. Anna's missing—of course she's upset."

"Being upset makes it okay to kill someone?" Vincent turned and glared at me like I was something filthy stuck to his shoe. "Did you eat your manners for breakfast? Camila's pregnant. If anything happens to the baby, I'll have you buried with it."

Buried with it.

I braced myself against the bedpost and straightened slowly, looking at the shameless pair in front of me, and suddenly it all felt grotesque.

My daughter was already dead.

Dead from the poison this woman in his arms had given her.

And he—Anna's biological father—was threatening to take my life for the sake of her killer's bastard child.

"Vincent." I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. My voice was rough, scraped raw. "You're right. I am done."

I lifted my head and fixed my empty, frozen gaze on him.

"Tomorrow morning at ten. In the family council hall. I'm divorcing you."

Vincent froze for a second, then let out a sharp, derisive laugh. "Divorce? You think that's going to scare me? Chloe, cut the hard-to-get act. It's disgusting."

"You'll find out tomorrow whether it's an act."

I didn't look at him again. I gathered the urn into my arms and walked out.

The next morning, in the Lucchese family council chamber.

The massive round table was crowded with family elders and old-timers. In the mafia world, seniority was everything. These men had once been my father's most loyal lieutenants, yet now they sat there with bored, impatient faces, whispering to each other.

The main doors swung open.

I walked into the hall in a stark black dress, the velvet-wrapped box cradled in my arms, each step echoing off the marble floor.

Vincent sat at the head of the table in a perfectly cut charcoal suit. Camila was beside him, sitting like the lady of the house, accepting the stares of the room as if she belonged there.

When he saw me, Vincent frowned. "Chloe, everyone here is busy. No one has time to play house with you. If you're here to apologize, you can get on your knees now."

"I'm here to make good on my word."

I walked to the far end of the table and slammed a yellowed document down on the polished wood.

"This is the prenuptial agreement our parents signed when you insisted on marrying me."

I swept my eyes around the room, my tone sharp and cold. "Clause ten: If the husband betrays the marriage or fails in his duty to support the family, the wife has the right to unilaterally dissolve the union. The husband must also submit to the designated penalty for ‘breach of trust.'"

The room fell silent.

Vincent's expression darkened. "What are you getting at?"

"According to the agreement," I said, pointing at the red seal stamped across the clause, "the Lucchese family is required to repay, in full, the emergency capital injected by the Costa family back then—eight hundred million dollars—plus ten years of inflation."

"And,"

My gaze cut to Vincent's left hand on the table, my words sharp as a blade. "The one who broke faith must, under our code, cut off one finger as an apology to the family."

Gasps exploded around the table.

"Is she out of her mind?"

"A finger? And pulling the money out? The Lucchese family will be gutted. Their cash flow will snap in half."

A heavyset elder with a bulldog face slammed his palm against the table. "Chloe! Your father's dead! The Luccheses are at the top now. Who do you think you are, waving some old piece of paper around and barking orders?"

"Exactly," another elder chimed in, eyes gleaming with greed. "That money's been part of the family assets for years. Who gives that back? You're being childish. Risking the family's interests over your love life? Your father would be ashamed."

I looked at the same men who had once bowed and scraped to my father, and felt a slow, creeping chill rise in my chest.

So these were the so-called "family elders."

Kick the fallen, abandon the dead.

"Vincent," Camila suddenly cried out, grabbing his hand and pressing it to her cheek, tears spilling on command. "They can't make you cut off a finger. That would hurt so much. Chloe, if you hate me, then come after me. Why are you being so cruel to Vincent? He's your husband."

She turned to me, all doe-eyed fragility. "Chloe, I know you're jealous that I'm pregnant, but money is just money. Vincent's fingers are part of him. Can you really live with yourself if you make him do this?"

Vincent's face went so dark it could have dripped ink. He jerked his hand away and swept the agreement off the table with a sharp flick. The pages scattered across the floor.

"Chloe, have you had enough?"

He pushed back his chair and came toward me step by step, his shadow engulfing me.