Chapter 1

At our daughter's birthday party, my husband, Marco Romano, threw a paternity test onto the table in front of everyone and announced that the child wasn't his.

Just as she was reaching up her small arms, asking him to help her cut the cake.

He shoved her away. Hard. In front of every single guest.

"Don't call me that."

His voice was ice.

"I'm not your father."

...

The whole room went dead silent.

He pulled a document from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and slammed it down on the table.

DNA Paternity Report—

Non-Paternity.

The words were blinding.

I stood frozen. Sofia stumbled from the force of his shove and stared up at me, dazed.

"*Mamma…*"

I opened my mouth to explain.

But what could I say? Swear that Marco was the only man I'd ever been with in my entire life?

Who would believe me?

The people in that room were the old guard of New York's Five Families—senior members of the Lucchese family, the *Consigliere* of the Romanos.

In the world of *Cosa Nostra*, tainted blood is a disgrace worse than death.

*Slap.*

A palm cracked across my face.

Isabella. My mother. Donna Lucchese.

"*Puttana!*"

Her voice trembled around the word.

Vittorio, my father, Don of the Lucchese family, stood there, his face rigid and dark.

He didn't hit me.

He just looked at me. And in his eyes, there was nothing but disgust.

That look hurt worse than any slap.

Tucked against Marco's chest, Elena had her shoulders drawn in, her eyes red, playing the picture of a fragile, injured little bird.

—Elena Lucchese. The Lucchese family's *real* daughter, "recovered" only a few months ago after decades of being lost.

Her voice came out soft, with the catch of held-back tears.

"I'm so sorry, Chiara…"

"I just mentioned it to Marco offhand—that Sofia didn't really look like him…"

"I had no idea he'd actually go get a DNA test done…"

One breezy little sentence. And Marco had run out and forged the results.

From that night on—

I became the joke of the entire Upper East Side. The adopted Lucchese daughter caught cheating on her husband.

Sofia became the *bastarda* whispered about in every Manhattan society circle.

Later, Marco filed for divorce.

For Sofia's sake, I swallowed every last shred of my pride.

I wanted to beg him to run one more DNA test.

At the gates of the Romano estate on Long Island, I stood outside the wrought-iron fence, clutching a photograph of my seven-year-old daughter.

The study window was half open.

I could hear Marco talking to his right-hand man, Luca.

"You framed Chiara as a *puttana* and turned Sofia into a *bastarda*, just to give Elena the satisfaction…"

"You're not worried Chiara might take the kid and run?"

Marco's voice was lazy, as if he were discussing the vintage of a cigar.

"Run? Run where?"

"Don Vittorio and Donna Lucchese both signed off on the fake DNA report."

"Serves her right—that unknown adopted girl held Elena's place for twenty whole years."

"Once Elena's had her fill of vengeance, I'll take Chiara back. Simple."

"She can't live without me."

"Even after she signs the divorce papers, she'll be sitting there clutching her ring, waiting for me to come around."

I gripped the cold iron bars until my knuckles went white.

Sofia had come home from school crying that day.

The private school uniform Marco had picked out for her himself was torn.

Her knees were skinned raw and bloody.

I called her teacher.

On the other end, a nun's voice, cold and detached:

"Mrs. Romano, forgive my bluntness—"

"Sofia's family situation… has become a source of considerable outrage among the other parents."

"This is a family school. We cannot accept a child of… 'tainted blood' remaining here."

I hung up and held my trembling daughter.

She tilted her tear-streaked little face up at me and asked:

"*Mamma*… if I really *were* Papà's daughter…"

"Would he… love me again?"

That was the sentence.

The one that made me abandon what little dignity I had left and run to the gates of the Romano estate.

And instead—

I heard this.

Inside the study, Luca's voice sounded hesitant.

"But Sofia, the kid…"

"I drove past her school today. I saw a bunch of kids standing around her, calling her *bastarda*…"

"She was crying so hard. You can really live with that?"

Marco chuckled. It was a small, quiet sound, drenched in the arrogance of a man who thought he owned the world.

"Kids forget. She's little."

"She's my flesh and blood. Romano blood."

"You think she's really going to refuse me as her father?"

I clutched the fence so hard my knuckles nearly snapped.

The old me—

The old me would've thrown open that door and stormed inside, demanding to know how he could.

But not this time.

This time, I simply, quietly, turned around.

The black Escalade was parked under an olive tree just beyond the gates.

I slid into the back seat and pulled off the wedding ring Marco had given me two years ago.

I set it down gently on the center armrest.

This marriage—

I, Chiara Lucchese—

was done. Finished.