Chapter 1

Ferran Moretti.Don of the Moretti family.My husband.

At a Mafia gathering held on the Moretti estate, before the five great families, he ordered me to paint him in bed with his mistress, Nina Lombardi—an intimate portrait of the two of them tangled together.

It was the eighteenth time he had paraded a mistress in front of me to provoke a reaction.

Everyone expected me to lose my composure.

Instead, I finished the painting, my face perfectly still.

One of his friends drawled, half-joking, half-mocking:

"Ferran, your Donna has nerves of steel. She isn't even angry."

Ferran scoffed.

"She wouldn't dare."

"The Sheridans are nothing but ash. I paid off her debts. Her mother's studio, the Rosa estate—they're all in my name."

"Without me, she is nothing."

I set down my brush and quoted the price, the way I always did.

"Custom commission, intimate setting—three million."

Ferran slid a check and a set of divorce papers across the table.

"Nina is timid. She's been with me without a title, without recognition, and she's felt slighted because of it."

"So we divorce first."

"Don't worry. Once she settles in, you can stay by my side as my mistress."

The whole room waited, hungry for my collapse.

Instead, I picked up the pen and signed.

The smile slipped from Ferran's face. "You're serious?"

I nodded. "I'm serious."

"Ferran, may you and Nina be together forever."

Three years had been long enough for me to gather every shred of intelligence on him.

I will never spare you again, Ferran.

...

Ferran's fingers rested on the divorce papers for a long while.

He looked up at me, as if only now realizing I wasn't joking.

After a moment, he twisted his lips into a sneer.

"Fine."

"But remember this: nothing inside Rosa Manor is to leave with you. Not a single item."

"Understood."

I'd never intended to take anything from that house. I knew he hated me.

I only wanted what my mother had left behind.

For three years, Rosa Manor had been little more than a cage around me.

The designer bags, the expensive jewelry, even the title of Donna—they were chains he'd thrown around my neck while calling them gifts.

But my calm clearly didn't satisfy Ferran. He was about to say something else when the Underboss beside him gave a soft laugh.

"Ferran, Serafina knows exactly what she's doing. Whenever Nina threw a tantrum, you softened.

Now Serafina's learned to sign her name and act unbothered—she's waiting for you to come coax her back."

At those words, whatever complicated emotion had flickered in Ferran's eyes vanished.

He looked down at me, regal and contemptuous.

"Sera, isn't it a bit late to start playing this game?"

"Nina is young. When she's willful, it's charming."

"You threatening me with divorce only makes you look pathetic."

He caught my chin and forced my face up.

"Do you really still think you're that pampered heiress of the Sheridans?"

"The Sheridans turned to ash long ago. Without me, how exactly do you plan to live?"

My fists clenched. I swallowed down the fury of hearing my family insulted, and kept my voice level.

"I'll paint."

"Paint?"

He laughed as though I'd told a joke.

"All of New York knows you're my woman. After our divorce, who would dare buy a painting from you?"

I'd heard variations of this so many times I'd lost count.

Ferran hated me for breaking off our engagement when he had nothing.

He hated that I'd once said, I don't want to marry a man who has nothing.

So after he rose, after he built his empire, he married me—just so he could grind me into the dirt over and over again.

I didn't want to argue. I simply met his gaze.

"I signed."

"Now return my mother's studio keys, and the deed to the Rosa garden."

Ferran sneered.

"You want the keys? Fine. Nina wants a maternity portrait."

"Paint until she's satisfied. Then I'll give them back."

The room went still in an instant.

Nina, leaning into Ferran's chest, curled her lips into a delicate smile.

"Ferran, don't be cruel to Sera. She only just signed."

Ferran steadied her, his palm settling protectively at the small of her back.

"You're carrying a child. Don't worry yourself over things like this."

At the word child, my hand stilled.

Ferran caught it. He let out a low laugh.

"Surprised?"

"Nina isn't like you. She can give me a family."

"You—you're just a useless thing."

He led Nina to the main sofa and lifted his chin toward me.

"Paint."

The servants brightened the lamps.

Nina nestled against Ferran's side, one hand on her belly, a small smile at her mouth.

And I stood at the easel and, numbly, captured every inch of their intimacy.

Someone snickered.

"The ex-wife paints the future wife, and a maternity portrait at that. Don, you've won this round in spectacular fashion."

"If I were Serafina, I couldn't hold the brush steady."

I might as well have been deaf.

Then Ferran had a servant bring out a canvas draped in white cloth.

The moment they pulled the cloth away, my pupils contracted.

It was my mother Rosa's portrait. Her final self-portrait, painted before her death.

Ferran held out a palette knife to me, his tone light, careless.

"Nina likes the composition of this piece."

"Change the face to hers."

The room fell utterly silent.

Then someone laughed under their breath.

"Don, this is crueler than a divorce."

"Making Serafina paint over her own mother with Nina's face—that's something else."

Nina nibbled her lower lip.

"Ferran, don't. Sera will hate me."

Ferran tilted his head and smoothed her hair.

"She wouldn't dare."

His eyes turned on me, cold as winter.

"Serafina. When you finish, the keys are yours."

I looked at my mother's gentle face in the painting, and something thick lodged in my throat.

It was the last piece of her I had.

And Ferran intended me to destroy it with my own hand.

I drew a long breath and took the palette knife.

Stroke by stroke, I scraped away her eyes, the bridge of her nose, the corners of her mouth.

Soon, her face was buried under white paint.

Then I painted Nina over her.

When I finished, I set down the brush.

"Mr. Moretti. Are you satisfied?"

Ferran stared at me, something furious and unreadable churning behind his eyes.

A few seconds passed. He took a manila envelope from his assistant's hand and hurled it at me.

The corner scraped my cheek before falling to the floor.

The keys and documents inside scattered across the marble.

"Take them and get out."

His voice had gone heavy with ice.

"Let's see what kind of price a woman cast out of the Moretti family can fetch for herself, without me."

I knelt and gathered the papers one by one, then turned for the door.

Behind me, Ferran's voice rang out again.

"Serafina Sheridan."

"Walk out that door today, and even if you come crawling back on your knees, I won't take you."

I smiled, faintly.

"I won't."

This time, I wouldn't look back.

I left with the studio that had been my mother's. I left the cage that had held me for three years.