Chapter 1

The day my mother was wheeled into the ICU, I knelt before my husband—the Don of the Valenti family—and begged him for the treatment money.

He didn't lift a finger.

He said: "Every dollar this family has was bought with blood. I don't throw money where there's no return."

"I had Russo send you a list of private lenders. Clean ones. Handle it yourself."

But a moment later, I heard him on the phone with Serena Kovac, a Hollywood actress looking to break into producing.

"The five million's already in your production account."

"Even if the whole thing tanks, it's on me. Consider it tuition for learning the business."

That was his new pet project. A twenty-four-year-old actress he called a "strategic asset."

I gripped the insurance denial so tight my nails broke skin.

Dominic turned around and saw me standing there. No tears. No scene. No more begging.

He nodded approvingly:

"Good. That's what I want to see."

"A Valenti woman doesn't go crawling to someone else every time things get hard."

"You solve your own problems. That's how this family survives."

I said a quiet "mm."

"You're right, Dominic. I'll solve my own problems."

Just make sure you can live with the consequences.

He didn't look at me again. He straightened his cuffs and left.

I pulled out my phone and called my attorney.

"Prepare the divorce papers. And those files—the ones that could bring the entire Valenti family to the ground? Get those ready too."

......

By the time Dominic came home, it was nearly one in the morning.

I sat in the living room of the Long Island estate. In front of me were the hospital bills, the critical condition notice.

And the signed divorce agreement.

He walked in, saw me, and only frowned.

"Why are you still up?"

I looked up at him.

"My mother is still in the ICU."

He hung his overcoat on the rack and walked to the bar to pour himself a whiskey.

"I know."

His tone was as calm as if he were commenting on the weather.

"But you're no good to anyone running on empty. Rest. Deal with it fresh."

I stared at the glass in his hand, and suddenly thought of that afternoon in the hospital corridor.

The way I'd looked when I begged him for money.

I'd said:

"Dominic, thirty thousand dollars. That's all. Just to keep her alive."

He'd said:

"Amber, people have to learn to accept what they can't control."

I thought I was already numb, but seeing him come home as if nothing had happened—

something still slammed hard against my chest.

Dominic finished his whiskey. His gaze fell on the table.

"What's all this?"

"Divorce papers."

His hand froze on the glass.

A few seconds later, he looked as if he'd heard some absurd joke.

"Amber, what are you throwing a fit about now?"

I pushed the papers toward him.

"I've already signed."

He didn't pick them up. He just looked down at the words, his eyes going cold by degrees.

"Because I didn't give you money?"

"No."

My voice was very soft.

"It's because I finally realized today—the Don of the Valenti family could not possibly be short of $30,000."

"You just won't help me."

Dominic's expression darkened.

“I just don't want my money to go into a bottomless pit; I won't get anything in return for giving you $30,000.”

I looked up and stared straight at him. "But you gave Serena five million dollars."

Dominic's face turned grim.

"The Serena deal is family business. It's a laundering channel. It's not personal."

"I've seen the wire confirmations."

I looked at him.

"Sent from your personal offshore account. Personal guarantee. You eat the losses."

"You call that family business?"

A flash of impatience crossed his eyes.

"You went through my desk?"

I smiled.

So his first reaction wasn't to explain. It was to blame me for finding out.

Dominic set the glass down hard on the table.

"Amber, you're out of control right now. I'm not discussing this with you."

"Your mother's situation—I understand. But you can't take your pressure out on me."

I looked at him.

"She's been your mother-in-law for six years. She sat at your table every Thanksgiving."

Dominic looked away.

"I never said I wouldn't help."

"I just don't think we should hemorrhage money into something with no foreseeable outcome."

After he said it, as if realizing how harsh it sounded, he added:

"I can have Dr. Ferraro make calls. Pull some strings at the hospital."

"But the cash—you need to figure that out yourself."

I suddenly felt my stomach lurch.

I stood up, picked up the divorce papers, and slid them into the folder.

"Tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock. Russo's office. We sign together and file uncontested."

Dominic stared at me for a long time.

“Valentis don't divorce. The last wife who tried ended up in witness protection—and even that didn't save her reputation.”

"Also, if you leave me, how exactly do you plan to pay for her treatment?"

The moment those words landed, my fingers went white.

He knew exactly what I feared most.

And exactly what I needed most.

So he used it to force me to submit.

I looked up at him.

"I'll figure it out myself. I always do."

"But Dominic—you might want to think about what I'll figure out to do with you."

Something shifted in his jaw. A barely perceptible tension.

He recovered quickly. His expression turned cold again.

"Don't threaten me, Amber. The last man who threatened this family is feeding crabs off the Rockaways. You want to test whether I make exceptions for blood?"

"I'm not threatening the family."

I held his gaze.

"I'm warning my husband,a husband who won't spend thirty thousand to keep my mother alive."

I said nothing more. I turned and went to the bedroom.

Before I closed the door, I heard him answer a call in the living room.

His voice dropped much lower.

"Serena, I've gone over the distribution contracts."

"Don't worry. I'll be at the signing with you tomorrow."

I knew exactly what I was doing. In this world, betraying the family carried one sentence—and there was no appeals court.

But Dominic had taught me something useful over ten years: fear only works on people who still have something to lose.

I shut the door, leaned against it, and slowly sank to the floor.

A low, dragging ache pulled through my belly.

I'd been so consumed with my mother these past days, I never went back for the follow-up.

A reminder from the hospital still sat unread in my phone.

[Ms. Marchetti, you are currently 7 weeks pregnant. Please schedule your prenatal checkup.]

I stared at that line for a long time.

Then I pressed the screen dark.