Vice Cody Orzechowski

Five years as a mafia wife, and my husband kept me locked in a gilded cage. Tonight, I found out why. I wasn't his wife. I was his collateral. "You were never supposed to find out like this, Valentina." Dante Moretti didn't even look up from his desk, shuffling documents like I hadn't just walked in on a room full of men deciding my fate. "But since you're here — sit down." Six men sat around the table in our dining room — my dining room, in my family's ancestral estate that Dante had taken as part of the merger between our families. I recognized every face. Capos. Underbosses. Men who kissed my hand at parties and called me Donna. And in the center of the table was a photograph of me, paper-clipped to a contract I'd never seen before. "What is this?" I asked. Dante finally looked at me. Cold. Bored. The same look he'd given me on our wedding night before he walked out and didn't come back until morning. "It's a transfer agreement. Your father owed the Calabresi family a debt he couldn't pay. So he paid with you." He tapped the photo. "You were the deal, Valentina. Not a bride. A transaction." The men around the table shifted uncomfortably. None of them met my eyes. My stepsister, Gianna, leaned against the doorframe behind me — I hadn't even noticed her there. She was wearing the silk robe I'd bought in Milan. The one that had disappeared from my closet last month. She smiled. "Don't look so shocked, Val. Everyone knew except you. I mean, Dante and I tried to be discreet, but—" She shrugged. "Five years is a long time to pretend." I looked at Dante. "You and Gianna." It wasn't a question. He didn't deny it. He leaned back in his chair. "She understands this world. You never did. You were always too soft, too idealistic. Your father's daughter." "My father—" "Your father was weak," Dante cut in. "He ran the Serrano family into the ground, sold you to save himself, and drank himself to death six months later. That's the man you keep defending." The room was silent. Something inside me should have shattered. Five years of loyalty, five years of playing the perfect Donna, hosting dinners, keeping secrets, turning a blind eye to blood and bullets because I believed — believed — that Dante and I were building something together. But nothing shattered. Something ignited. "So I'm free to leave," I said calmly. Dante blinked. "What?" "If I was collateral for a debt, and my father is dead, the debt dies with him. I'm no longer bound to this arrangement. I'm leaving." Gianna laughed. "And go where? You have nothing, Val. No money, no family, no connections. Dante owns everything — this house, the cars, your clothes. You'll be on the street by morning." I looked at her. Really looked at her — the smugness, the cruelty dressed up as pity, the way she draped herself over my life like she'd earned it. "You're right," I said. "I'll take nothing." I turned and walked toward the door. "Valentina." Dante's voice hardened. "If you walk out that door, you don't come back. And I will make sure every family in this city knows you were discarded. No one will protect you. No one will touch you." I paused with my hand on the doorframe. "Dante," I said, without turning around. "You have no idea what I am. And by the time you find out, it will be far too late." I walked out into the night. What none of them knew — not Dante, not Gianna, not a single man at that table — was that the Serrano family's empire hadn't died with my father. I'd rebuilt it in the shadows. And the most feared name in the underground wasn't some mysterious ghost they'd been hunting for three years. It was me.

My husband stole 100 of my recipes to turn his mistress into America's most famous chef. What he never knew? That woman set the fire that killed my little sister. And the kidney that saved his life three years ago—the one he thinks came from a "miracle donor"? That was mine. The same wife he spent five years grinding into dust. Daniel didn't know I was already home. I heard him on the phone in the kitchen, laughing soft and warm—a voice he hadn't used with me in years. "Relax, Sienna. The Food Network deal is signed. You're the face. Nobody will ever know Claire wrote the recipes." A pause. Then: "She's a doormat. She'll keep cooking and keep her mouth shut. After the show launches, I'll file. Quiet divorce. Throw her some cash." My grocery bags hit the floor. Eggs cracked across the tile. He spun around. "Claire. You're back early." "Traffic was light." My voice came out flat, steady. A stranger's voice. He crossed the kitchen and tried to kiss my forehead like nothing happened. I didn't move. His lips landed on cold skin. "You okay, babe? You look pale." Five years ago, I was holding my sister Maddie's hand in a burn ward when the machines went quiet. Smoke had taken her lungs. She was twenty-two. Three weeks later, Daniel appeared at the funeral. Soft eyes. Perfect timing. Marry me. Let me take care of you. I thought it was love. It was a business plan with a ring attached. My phone buzzed. Daniel. [Babe, big investor dinner tonight. Wear the red dress. I need you to charm them. 7 PM.] I stared at the screen, my whole body humming with something cold and electric. Then I typed: [Okay.] The dinner was at a rooftop place I'd designed the entire tasting menu for—a menu running under his restaurant's name. She was already there. Sienna Cole. White silk, blinding smile, surrounded by men in suits who looked at her like she'd invented fire. "Claire!" She floated over, champagne in hand. "Oh my God, you look exhausted. Daniel works you too hard back there in that little test kitchen." Test kitchen. That's what they called the place where I created everything she took credit for. "I manage," I said. Her smile sharpened. "You should come to my show taping. Watch how it's really done." "I'd love that," I said, and clinked her glass. "Congratulations on the Food Network deal." She blinked. Just once. I'd said it before it was public. I left early. Said my stomach hurt. At home, I walked past the one room in our house I'd never entered. Daniel's office. Private. Work documents. Stay out. For five years, I did. Not tonight. I gripped the handle. The keypad glowed blue. I took a breath and typed in a date—not our anniversary, not my birthday. Hers. Sienna's. Beep. Green light. The lock clicked open. And I stepped into a room that told me exactly how long my marriage had been a lie.

My mother died on a Tuesday. By Thursday, my husband's mistress was wearing my wedding dress at the funeral. I stood at the back of the church, holding my five-year-old son Leo's hand, and watched a woman I'd never seen before walk down the aisle in my dress — the lace gown I'd kept wrapped in tissue paper for fifteen years. She walked right up to my mother's open casket, leaned down, and whispered something. Then she turned and smiled at me. My husband, Dean, stood beside her. He didn't even look embarrassed. He put his arm around her waist — right there, in front of my dead mother — and said, "Ava, this is Crystal. She's going to be staying with us for a while." I couldn't breathe. Leo tugged my hand. "Mommy, why is that lady wearing your pretty dress?" Before I could answer, Dean's mother, Vivian, walked over. She squeezed Crystal's arm affectionately and said, "Doesn't she look beautiful? Much better than you ever did in it, Ava." My sister, Nora, grabbed my arm. "Don't make a scene. Not here." But I wasn't going to make a scene. I was going to burn their world to the ground. See, what none of them knew — not Dean, not Vivian, not Crystal — was that my mother hadn't just left me grief. She'd left me a secret. One that would destroy the entire family. But I'll get to that. First, let me tell you how I ended up married to the worst man alive. I met Dean when I was twenty-two. He was charming. Quiet. The kind of man who opened doors and remembered your coffee order. My mother never liked him. She said, "Ava, that man has empty eyes." I didn't listen. We married fast. I moved to his hometown, six hours from my family. That was his first move — isolation. Then came Vivian. Dean's mother ran the family like a dictator. She controlled the money. She controlled Dean. She controlled me. When Leo was born, Vivian told me I wasn't allowed to go back to work. "A mother's place is at home." Dean agreed. Of course he did. He agreed with everything she said. I cooked. I cleaned. I raised Leo alone while Dean worked late — or so he said. For five years, I was a ghost in my own house. Then my mother got sick. Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. I begged Dean to let me visit her. He said we couldn't afford the trip. We couldn't afford a bus ticket, but he'd just bought Vivian a new refrigerator. My mother died without me by her side. I will never forgive myself for that. And I will never forgive him. When I finally arrived for the funeral — borrowing money from Nora — I discovered that Dean had already been there for two days. With Crystal. In my wedding dress. After the funeral, I went to the bathroom and locked the door. My hands were shaking. I splashed water on my face and looked in the mirror. I was thirty-seven. I looked fifty. When did I become this woman? My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. "Your mother left something for you at First National Bank. Safe deposit box 7714. Don't tell your husband." I stared at the message. Who sent this? What did my mother leave me? And why couldn't Dean know? I dried my face and walked out. Dean and Crystal were laughing in the parking lot. Vivian was holding Leo, feeding him candy even though I'd told her a hundred times he was allergic to artificial dye. His lips were already swelling. I snatched him away. "He's allergic! I've told you this!" Vivian rolled her eyes. "Oh, stop being dramatic. A little candy never killed anyone." Crystal giggled. Dean said nothing. I held my son tight and looked at all three of them. You have no idea what's coming. None of you do. ================================

On our third wedding anniversary, my husband, Alexander Kingsley, gave me two gifts. The first was a box of limited-edition jewelry. The second was a divorce agreement, already bearing his signature. Alexander looked at me with that same guilty expression I'd seen countless times over three years and said, "Sign it, Evelyn." "Camilla's having another episode..." He held out a pen. I nearly laughed from the sheer absurdity of it. "And you can't help it — you owe her your life. I know." A thin, mocking smile tugged at my lips as I finished the sentence for him. His brow furrowed. "Evelyn... I'm sorry. Once she stabilizes, we'll remarry. All right?" I said nothing. Because Camilla was having an episode, we — a legally married couple — had to get divorced. This insane logic had played out sixty-five times in our three years of marriage. Today made sixty-six. I couldn't take it anymore. "Fine." I nodded. A flicker of surprise crossed his eyes. After all, this was the first time I'd been this calm. In the past, whenever he made this absurd request, I would cry from rage, demand answers, even hurl the agreement in his face. But today, I was just tired. I wanted to let myself go. I took the pen and signed my name with steady, unhurried strokes. Evelyn Harper. Three years of marriage, and I had never once taken his surname. "Done." Alexander let out a breath of relief. "Evelyn... I knew you'd understand." No. You've got it all wrong. "We'll go get remarried in a few days, all right?" No. This is the last time. Three years. Sixty-six times. The first time I went to file for divorce, the clerk walked me through the process step by step. The second time, she sighed. By the tenth, she just pulled the forms out and set them on the counter before I could ask. By the thirtieth, the woman at the window would laugh when she saw us coming. "Back again?" By the sixtieth, even the intern running copies in the corner would press his lips together, watching us like we were some kind of sitcom. "Their marriage is honestly hilarious." I thought so, too. I would never allow myself to be caught in something this absurd again. "I'm leaving." I stood and walked straight for the door. Behind me, Alexander must have sensed something was off. He caught my hand. "Evelyn, what's wrong with you today? Something's different." I didn't explain. We stood there, locked in a stalemate. Neither of us willing to give. Then his phone buzzed. "Camilla? Don't do anything rash." He dropped my hand in an instant, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door without a single backward glance. "I've already filed the divorce — yes, that's done. Stop crying." "I'm on my way. Just wait for me. Be good, all right?" My name is Evelyn Harper. Columbia Business School. Running cross-border M&A since I was twenty-six. I thought I could handle anything. Turns out I couldn't handle my own marriage. Eventually, I found an excuse for myself. The same excuse he trotted out every single time to make me stay. "You have to understand," he'd say. "She saved my life." "I owe her everything." It was something that happened when they were young. He and Camilla had been kidnapped. The kidnappers called Camilla's father and told him to choose one child to save. He said Camilla was shaking all over, but she still turned her head and said to him: "You go first." He was released. Camilla stayed behind in that warehouse. What happened afterward — she never told anyone. After that, their relationship became something twisted. Camilla developed an intense possessiveness over Alexander. She needed to know his schedule every single day, down to the minute. If he didn't respond to her texts within five minutes, the phone calls would start coming, one after another. In high school, Alexander's first relationship ended in heartbreak. His girlfriend couldn't stand being kissed while Camilla stared at them from three feet away. In college, his girlfriend dumped him. "I'm done," she said. "One phone call from her and you're pulling your pants on and running out the door like a dog." Later, Alexander took over the family business, and Camilla became an actress. He threw everything he had into backing her career from behind the scenes. Alexander recounted all of this, then told me that if I wanted to be his partner, I had to accept Camilla's presence in our lives. "Evelyn, you're stronger than she is. You can handle it, can't you?" I nodded. Back then, I loved him so deeply that I would have walked through fire for him. But now, I finally realized how utterly foolish I had been. It was time to cut my losses. That was the only sensible thing to do. Alexander, I will never marry you again. I drove to a jewelry consignment shop and sold the limited-edition pieces he'd given me. Excellent price. My mood lifted immediately. Just then, my phone screen lit up. A message from Camilla: "He's mine now." Sure. He's all yours.

The day the doctor confirmed I was carrying twins, I drove to Marcus's office to surprise him. Through the glass wall of the conference room, I saw my husband of three years feeding a strawberry to a woman sitting on his lap. She was pregnant. Much further along than me. His mother, Helen, sat across from them, smiling warmly—the same woman who'd told me for three years that I was "the only daughter-in-law she'd ever want." Helen raised her champagne glass. "Once Rosalie's twins are born and the DNA matches, we'll take the babies. The surrogacy contract is airtight. She signed the prenup. She gets nothing." My blood turned to ice. Surrogacy contract? Marcus kissed the woman's forehead—tender, adoring, everything he'd been with me. "Lena, I'm sorry you had to wait. Mother needed Rosalie's eggs because your bloodline wasn't 'pure' enough for the family trust. But our baby will inherit too. I'll make sure of it." Lena pouted. "Three years, Marcus. Three years I've shared you with that clueless little orphan." "It's almost over, love." Helen pulled out a document. "After delivery, we'll declare her mentally unfit. Emergency custody. She won't even get a hearing." My hands went to my stomach, shaking so hard I could barely stand. Three years. Three years of love, of him cradling me at night, whispering that I was his world. Three years of his mother teaching me family recipes and calling me "dear." They were farming me. Like livestock. I stumbled back from the glass. My heel caught the carpet and I grabbed the wall, biting through my lip to keep from screaming. Marcus's voice carried through the crack in the door. "Has Dr. Voss adjusted her prenatal vitamins? I need these twins born healthy. The trust requires genetic verification within 48 hours of birth." "All handled," Helen said. "She takes whatever we give her. She trusts us completely." She trusts us completely. The words hit like a blade to the chest. Because I did. God help me, I did. When I was nineteen, alone, grieving my grandmother, working double shifts at the hospital—Marcus Aldric showed up like sunlight. He didn't throw money at me like the others. He sat with me in the hospital cafeteria at 2 AM, eating cold pasta, listening to me talk about my grandmother's Parkinson's. He drove four hours to find a specialist for her. When she died in my arms, he held me for six hours straight without speaking. And I married him believing I was the luckiest woman alive. Now I understood. Every kindness had been calculated. Every touch had been a transaction. I was never his wife. I was an incubator with a heartbeat. My phone buzzed. A text from Marcus: "Working late tonight, baby. Don't wait up. Love you. ❤️" I stared at the red heart emoji until my vision blurred. Then I did something I'd never done before. I didn't cry. I screenshot the prenup on my phone and sent it to the only lawyer I knew—my grandmother's old neighbor, now a senior partner at a top firm. Then I walked to my car, sat down, and placed both hands on my stomach. "I will get us out of this," I whispered. "Whatever it takes." I started the engine. In the rearview mirror, the Aldric Corp building glittered like a glass cathedral. I was going to burn it to the ground. But first, I needed to find out exactly what they'd put in my vitamins.

The nurse ripped my daughter from my arms while I was still bleeding. "No!" I screamed, clawing at the hospital sheets, my body broken from twelve hours of labor. "Give her back to me! Give me my baby!" But the nurse didn't even look at me. She walked straight to the door, where Alpha Dominic stood with his arm around another woman—Vanessa, his mistress, the woman who had been sleeping in my bed while I was confined to the pack's medical wing for a high-risk pregnancy. Vanessa smiled. That perfect, poison-sweet smile she always wore when she was destroying my life. She reached out and took my newborn daughter—my Lily—and cradled her against her chest like she had any right to touch her. "She's beautiful, Dom," Vanessa cooed, stroking my baby's cheek with her manicured finger. "She looks just like you." I tried to get up. My body screamed in protest—the C-section stitches pulling, blood soaking through the bandages—but I didn't care. I would crawl across broken glass to get to my daughter if I had to. "Dominic, please," I begged, hating the weakness in my voice. "She needs me. She needs her mother. Please—" He finally looked at me. My mate. My fated mate. The man whose mark still burned on my neck like a brand. His dark eyes swept over me with the same expression he'd give a stain on his shirt. "The pack doctor will take care of her," he said flatly. "And from now on, Vanessa will be her mother. It's already been decided." The world tilted. "Decided? She's MY daughter! I carried her for nine months! You can't—" "I can." His voice hardened into the Alpha command that made every wolf in the Blackstone Pack submit. Every wolf except me. Not anymore. "You're not qualified, Serena. You've been unstable throughout the pregnancy. The elders agree—Lily is better off with Vanessa." Unstable. That's what he called it when I cried after finding Vanessa's lingerie in our bedroom. Unstable, when I begged him to attend even one ultrasound appointment. Unstable, when I had a panic attack after his mother told me I was "replaceable." "This is what you want!" I whispered, the truth crystallizing like ice in my veins. "You kept me isolated. You told the pack doctor to put me on bedrest so I couldn't leave. You planned this from the beginning." Something flickered in his eyes. Guilt? No. Dominic didn't feel guilt. He felt inconvenience. "You should rest," he said, already turning away. "The rejection ceremony will be in three days. After that, you're free to leave pack territory." Rejection ceremony. The words hit me like a physical blow. He wasn't just taking my baby. He was severing our mate bond—publicly, ceremonially, in front of the entire pack. The ultimate humiliation for a Luna. Vanessa paused at the door, my daughter still in her arms. She looked back at me with those cold green eyes and whispered, just low enough that only I could hear: "I told you I'd take everything." The door closed. I sat in that hospital bed, bleeding, broken, and alone, and I felt something inside me snap. Not break—snap. Like a bone resetting itself. Like a wolf baring its teeth for the first time. They thought I was weak. They thought months of isolation and emotional abuse had hollowed me out, turned me into the fragile, submissive Luna and they could do whatever they wanted to me. They were wrong. I pressed my hand against the mark on my neck—the mark that still connected me to Dominic, that still let me feel the echo of his heartbeat—and I made a vow. I would get my daughter back. I would burn their world to the ground. And Dominic would learn what it meant to take something from a mother who had nothing left to lose. But first, I had to survive the next seventy-two hours. Because what I didn't know yet—what no one in the Blackstone Pack knew—was that my blood carried a secret. A secret that would change everything. And it had already begun to wake up.

I died on a satisfie, bleeding out on my kitchen floor while my husband watched. The last thing I saw was Connor stepping over my body to answer his phone. "Hey, babe. Yeah, she's handled. The house is ours now." Then everything went black. When I opened my eyes again, I was twenty-two, standing at the altar, about to say "I do." And just like before, a stream of glowing text scrolled across my vision— [Here we go again. The moment she satisfie her life.] [Connor marries her for the inheritance, gets his mistress pregnant within a year.] [By twenty-five, he poisons her slowly with her own anxiety medication.] [By twenty-eight, he kills her and makes it look like suicide.] [And the mistress? She wears Mia's wedding ring to the funeral.] My bouquet slipped from my fingers. The church went silent. Three hundred guests stared. Connor's hand found my elbow, squeezing just hard enough to bruise. His smile never wavered, but his whisper was ice: "Pick it up, Mia. Don't embarrass me." In my first life, I obeyed. I always obeyed. I picked up the bouquet, said my vows, and walked into seven years of hell. But now? I looked at Connor—his perfect jaw, his practiced smile, the way his eyes slid to the third pew where a woman in a cream dress sat watching us. Vanessa. She was already here. At my wedding. Wearing cream. Almost white. The audacity would have destroyed me before. Now it just confirmed everything. The priest cleared his throat: "Do you, Mia Ashford, take Connor Reid to be your lawfully wedded husband?" The words floated before my eyes again— [Say no. SAY NO. This is her only chance!] [But if she doesn't marry him, she loses access to everything she needs to take him down.] [The Ashford inheritance clause requires marriage by twenty-two or the money goes to her stepmother.] [She's trapped either way.] My throat tightened. They were right. My father's will was iron-clad. Marry by twenty-two, or my stepmother, Diane, inherits the entire Ashford estate. Diane, who had been feeding Connor information for years. Who had introduced him to Vanessa in the first place. If I said no now, I'd lose everything. No money, no leverage, no proof. But if I said yes, I'd be walking back into the cage. Unless this time, I was the one holding the key. I smiled—a real smile, the kind that made Connor's eyes narrow with suspicion. "I do." The church erupted in applause. Connor kissed me, and his lips felt like a brand. But as we walked down the aisle, I caught Vanessa's eye. She smirked at me—triumphant, possessive, already counting the months until she'd replace me. I smiled back. She had no idea that I'd already memorized the date she would try to open a joint account with my husband. The restaurant where Connor would first slip crushed pills into my wine. The exact moment Diane would forge my signature on the revised will. This time, every trap they set would snap shut on their own fingers. As we climbed into the limousine, Connor's phone buzzed. He tilted the screen away from me, but I didn't need to see it. I already knew the text by heart. It was from Vanessa: "How long until we get rid of her?" In my first life, the answer was six years. In this life, they wouldn't last six months. But first—I needed to find the one person who had tried to warn me before I died. The voicemail I'd deleted without listening. The call I'd ignored because Connor told me she was crazy. My mother's best friend, Ruth. The woman Connor had murdered three months before he murdered me.

I signed the rejection papers while my mate kissed another woman on our bed. The pen didn't even shake in my hand. Three years of marriage—and this was how it ended. Not with a fight. Not with tears. Just the quiet scratch of ink on paper while she moaned his name in the next room. I placed the signed documents on the kitchen counter, right next to the breakfast I'd made him—his favorite, eggs Benedict with smoked salmon. The plate was still warm. Then I picked up my bag and walked toward the door. I didn't slam it. I closed it gently, the way I'd done everything in this marriage—quietly, carefully, making sure I never disturbed anyone. The morning air hit my face. Cold. Sharp. January in New York. My wolf stirred inside me, weak but restless. *"We need to tell him,"* she whispered. I pressed my hand against my stomach—still flat, but not for long. Six weeks pregnant. With the child of an Alpha who just rejected me for his childhood sweetheart. No. He didn't need to know. He'd made his choice. And I'd made mine. I pulled out my phone and dialed the only number I had left. "Aunt Harper? It's Elara." "Elara? Oh my God, sweetheart—what's wrong? It's six in the morning." "I need a place to stay. Can I come to you?" A pause. Then, softly: "What did he do?" My throat tightened. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to sound unbothered. But when someone asks you *what happened* with genuine care in their voice—after three years of no one asking at all—something inside you just... breaks. "He chose her," I whispered. "He's been choosing her for months. I just... I didn't want to see it." "I'm booking your train ticket right now. Don't argue." "Okay." "And Elara?" "Yeah?" "You're never going back to that man. Do you hear me?" I ended the call and stood on the sidewalk, watching the city wake up around me. Somewhere behind me, in the penthouse I'd called home for three years, my husband—no, my *ex*-husband—was tangled in sheets with Megan Cross, the woman he told me was "just a colleague." Funny thing was, I'd believed him. Every single time. When she called at midnight, I believed him. When her perfume clung to his collar, I believed him. When she showed up at our anniversary dinner "by coincidence," I smiled and offered her a seat. Because that's what Luna Elara did. She trusted. She forgave. She stayed. But Luna Elara was gone now. My phone buzzed. Aunt Harper had sent the ticket. The train left in two hours. I didn't look back—not once. But my wolf did. And the last thing she felt through the bond, before I shut it down completely, was this: He was laughing. He was laughing with her in our bed—and he hadn't even noticed I was gone.