Chapter 3 - The Queen’s FallThe grand ballroom was entirely deserted now.
The two hundred elite guests had been quietly escorted out through the service exits by armed guards, their phones confiscated, their memories effectively sealed under the ironclad silence of the underworld. Not a single whisper of the scandal would reach the morning papers. In the world of the Morettis, secrets didn't leak; they were buried.
I stood by the massive arched windows of the second-floor gallery, looking down at the empty ballroom below. The shattered champagne glasses had already been swept away by terrified junior maids, but a faint, sticky residue remained on the black-and-white marble floor.
Heavy footsteps echoed up the grand staircase.
Vivian DeMarco was pushed through the double doors by two guards. Her silver-blue gown was ruined, the hem stained with dirt and spilled wine, her elaborate updo half-unraveled, hanging loosely around her pale, sweat-slicked face. She looked less like a high-society queen and more like a cornered animal.
“Let go of me! Do you know who my father is? My father will have every single one of you executed by morning!” Vivian shrieked, thrashing against the guards until Vincent stepped out of the shadows.
“Your father is currently downstairs, learning how fast a senator can become a nobody,” Vincent said coldly, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
Vivian froze. She whipped her head around, her eyes widening in sheer terror as she saw Vincent standing at the top of the stairs, flanked by Marcus and me.
When her eyes landed on me—standing tall in the very maid’s uniform she had ordered me to scrub the floor in—a look of pure, venomous hatred twisted her features.
“You!” Vivian spat, pointing a trembling finger at me. “You filthy, disgusting parasite! You planned this, didn't you? You sneaked into our world, you played the victim, you—!”
“Shut your mouth, Vivian,” Vincent snapped, taking a slow, deliberate step down the stairs toward her.
The sheer aura of authority radiating from him silenced her instantly. She backed away until the small of her back hit the marble balustrade overlooking the ballroom.
“You had three months,” Vincent said, stopping two paces away from her. “Three months to treat her like a human being. Three months to show a shred of decency. Instead, you spat on her, you struck her with a riding crop, you forced her to her knees.”
“She’s a maid!” Vivian sobbed hysterically, her mask completely shattering. “She’s nobody! She’s just some fat girl from the slums who doesn't belong in our world!”
“She is Isabella Teresa Moretti,” Vincent corrected, his voice dropping to a register of pure ice. “The blood of my grandfather runs through her veins. She is the rightful co-owner of every port, every bank, and every estate bearing our name. And you… you are nothing.”
Vivian’s breath caught in her throat. She looked from Vincent to me, the horrifying reality of what she had done finally sinking in. She had not just bullied a servant; she had tortured the most heavily protected bloodline heir in the entire syndicate.
“Vincent… please,” Vivian whispered, sliding down the marble pillar until she was kneeling on the floor, right where I had been kneeling an hour earlier. “We’re engaged. We’re supposed to be married in June. Please… forgive me.”
Vincent looked down at her with absolute indifference.
“The engagement was a business arrangement brokered by your father to secure our shipping lanes,” Vincent said flatly. “And business, Vivian, is officially concluded.”
He turned his head slightly toward the shadows.
“Marcus.”
“Boss?”
“Strip her of the ring. Escort her out of the estate gates—leave her the dress, but take her phone, her car keys, and her jewelry. Let her walk back to her father’s mansion in the snow. If any member of the DeMarco family ever steps foot within five miles of Belladonna House again, treat them as hostile targets.”
“Understood, Boss,” Marcus said, stepping forward.
As the guards grabbed Vivian by her arms and dragged her screaming down the corridor, her frantic cries slowly faded into the howling wind of the storm outside.
The gallery fell silent once more.
Vincent turned slowly, walking back toward me. The harsh, intimidating mafia boss dissolved for a fleeting second, replaced by a man carrying the heavy, agonizing burden of decades of family betrayal.
He stopped right in front of me, looking down at the antique silver locket resting against my chest.
“I’m sorry,” Vincent said softly, his voice carrying a weight I had never expected to hear from a man like him. “For what they put you through in my house. For every hour you spent scrubbing these floors while my enemies plotted in the shadows.”
I looked up into his dark, intense eyes. The fear was gone, replaced by a sudden, fierce spark of pride.
“I didn't survive twenty-eight years of poverty and hardship by breaking easily, Mr. Moretti,” I said steadily.
May you like
A slow, genuine smile touched the corners of Vincent’s mouth—the first real smile I had ever seen on him.
“Call me Vincent, cousin,” he said, extending a hand toward me. “And welcome home.”
