Chapter 3

Serena's POV

The next morning, the scandal of the bastard heir was splashed across the media.

The family's corporate empire controlled vast legitimate holdings — real estate, shipping, construction — the arteries of its fortune. Now that the godfather himself had a love child splashed across the headlines, the stock prices of every subsidiary went into free fall. Capital markets despise nothing more than that kind of turbulence.

The family's consigliere convened an emergency meeting of senior leadership. The strategy they produced was brutal and simple: present a united front.

We would hold a live-streamed press conference in the hospital's media area. The original plan called for me to hold the baby in my arms with Alessandro standing at my side — a tableau of unshakable marriage for the whole world to see.

I sat in the makeup chair while stylists scrambled to conceal the dark circles under my eyes.

The floor manager ushered us into the media hall. It was packed with reporters and a forest of cameras, the lights blinding and cold.

Valentina waited beside the photo area in a plain pale dress that made her look frail and heartbreaking.

The moment the director called for a sound check, Valentina's knees buckled.

She clutched the edge of a table, and a heart-wrenching sob broke from her throat. She cried that her chest hurt, and she wailed at the assembled cameras about how cruel it was to tear a mother from her child for the sake of a publicity stunt.

Alessandro, who had been standing beside me, abandoned his position the instant he heard her weeping.

He strode to Valentina, wrapped a firm arm around her waist, and gathered her against his chest, steadying her trembling frame.

He shot the consigliere a cold look and demolished the entire PR strategy with a single sentence.

"Let her stay in the shot," Alessandro ordered.

The consigliere went pale. "Don, the investors need to see you with your wife and child! If the mistress appears on camera beside you, this whole thing collapses!"

"I said she stays." Alessandro's voice was low, carrying an oppressive menace that brooked no argument.

He turned to me, eyes hard as iron, offering no ground.

"You will stand beside her. You will smile. And you will show the world that you accept this arrangement."

He actually wanted me to play shield for his sweetheart in front of a live global broadcast.

He wanted to keep his throne, elevate his mistress, and grind my dignity into the mud to serve as their stepping stone.

I stared at his imperious face, and I finally saw the man beneath the power — hollow, filthy, and false.

The cameras began to roll, red recording lights blinking on one after another.

Alessandro stood dead center, Valentina tucked possessively against his side. She cradled the baby and gazed up at him with shining, worshipful eyes.

And I had been pushed to the very edge of the frame, into the shadows.

A full step of distance separated us. In my own lawful marriage, I was reduced to a ridiculous, superfluous extra.

The reporters began hurling sharp questions, the flashbulbs nearly blinding.

A bold journalist from a major network shoved a microphone toward my face, eyes razor-sharp.

"Mrs. Cavallaro," the reporter raised her voice above the din, "can you truly tolerate all of this? Have you abandoned every last shred of your self-respect just to keep the title of the godfather's wife?"

The hall fell dead silent. Nothing remained but the machine-gun chatter of shutters.

Alessandro's jaw went taut. A dangerous aura rolled off him as he stepped forward.

"Watch your mouth," he said, voice low and bloodthirsty.

I raised a hand and rested it on Alessandro's forearm, stopping him.

I faced the cameras squarely, spine straight, my voice perfectly calm.

"I will withdraw on my own," I said, enunciating every word. "I will step aside for Valentina and give her everything she so rightly 'deserves.'"

The reporters below erupted, hammering at their phones to break the explosive headline.

Alessandro turned to look at me, mistaking my cold detachment for a broken woman's surrender.

He believed I had finally bowed to the reality he had built.

The interview wrapped up in a hurry.

The moment we were off camera, Valentina couldn't wait to pull out her phone and post a cozy photo of herself and Alessandro cradling the baby.

Within an hour, the mafia world's gossip forums were on fire.

Countless people mocked me — spineless, soft, pathetic. Everyone was laughing at my downfall, declaring that the legitimate wife had lost all power and been swept out by the new favorite.

My phone buzzed wildly in my pocket, notifications flooding in. I didn't even glance at it.

I walked straight through the media area to an empty rooftop terrace. The cold wind hit my face, and below me stretched the vast skyline of the city.

I took out my phone and dialed a long-buried overseas number.

Seven years ago, I had been the most dazzling architectural prodigy in Europe.

Rome's most prestigious historic-restoration firm had extended its hand to me, inviting me to become the youngest core partner in its history.

But then, on the eve of my wedding, Alessandro had complained offhandedly that he hated long-distance relationships — and I had torn that brilliant offer to pieces and thrown it in the trash.

The phone rang twice before it was answered.

"Serena?" The old director's steady voice was thick with disbelief.

"Is the chief architect position on the coastal restoration still open?" I asked.

"For you? Always. When can you start?"

I looked down at the flight confirmation flashing on my screen.

"In forty-eight hours, I'll be on a plane to Rome."