2

##Chapter 2

"The master bedroom needs redecorating," Isabella announced the next morning, trailing her manicured fingers along our silk curtains.

Our bedroom.

Where I'd slept beside Vincenzo for a decade.

"Of course," I replied sweetly. "What did you have in mind?"

"Something more... fertile." She placed both hands on her barely-there bump. "Gold and crimson. Colors of prosperity and blood."

How poetic.

"I'll arrange everything," I promised, mentally cataloguing every word, every gesture, every weakness.

Isabella Romano—twenty-three, spoiled, predictable.

She believed pregnancy made her untouchable.

She was wrong.

"Vincenzo says you're handling this transition beautifully," she purred, settling into my favorite armchair. "Most wives would be... difficult."

"I'm not most wives."

"No," she agreed, studying her reflection in my vanity mirror. "Most wives produce heirs."

The barb landed, but I didn't flinch.

Instead, I smiled. "Would you like some tea? For the babies?"

"How thoughtful." She preened. "You'll make an excellent... what's the word? Aunt?"

Aunt. To the children conceived in my marriage bed.

"I'd be honored," I lied.

An hour later, I sat across from Alfonso Romano in his mahogany-paneled office, playing the grieving wife perfectly.

"Isabella will make Vincenzo happy," I said, dabbing fake tears with his monogrammed handkerchief. "I only want what's best for both families."

Alfonso leaned forward, his predatory smile revealing gold teeth. "You're more reasonable than I expected, Cassandra."

"Business is business," I replied. "Which brings me to why I'm here."

I slid the contract across his desk—fifty pages of legal jargon disguised as a simple alliance agreement.

"A weapons trafficking partnership," I explained. "To strengthen our families' bond through Isabella's marriage."

His eyes lit up with greed. "What kind of numbers are we discussing?"

"Fifty million in arms shipments. Twenty million in money laundering operations. Clean routes through my European contacts."

Alfonso's breathing quickened. "The profit margins..."

"Seventy percent for Romano operations, thirty for Moretti oversight," I offered graciously.

He was practically salivating.

"Where do I sign?"

I pointed to the signature line, watching him scrawl his name across documents that would destroy everything he'd built.

"Pleasure doing business," I said, shaking his sweaty palm.

That evening, I descended into my private armory—a room Vincenzo had never bothered to explore.

Maps covered every wall, marked with shipping routes and weapons caches.

But tonight, I pinned up something new.

Photographs.

Alfonso Romano. Isabella Romano. Donatella Moretti. Vincenzo Moretti.

Their faces stared back at me like targets in a shooting gallery.

Beneath each photo, I attached financial records, personal secrets, psychological profiles.

Alfonso: gambling addiction, owes two million to Russian bratva.

Isabella: prescription drug dependency, daddy issues.

Donatella: illegal art collection worth forty million, purchased with blood money.

Vincenzo: tax evasion, offshore accounts in the Caymans.

I stepped back to admire my work.

"Phase one complete," I whispered to their photographs.

My reflection caught in the glass covering Alfonso's picture—no longer the submissive wife, but something far more dangerous.

A queen preparing for war.

My phone buzzed. Text from Vincenzo: Dinner at 8. Wear the red dress.

I smiled at the message.

He still thought he was giving me orders.

Soon, he'd learn the difference between a queen and a pawn.

But first, I had a dinner to attend.

And a performance to give.

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