A Monsoon Rising by Thea Guanzon

I was guiding the blade through a slab of A5 Wagyu for our seven-year anniversary when a burner phone vibrated against my knee.

It was a photo of a manicured hand resting on the tuxedo I had bought for Dante three weeks ago. On the finger sat a massive diamond ring.

The caption read: Mrs. Isabella Gallo. Finally legal.

For seven years, I wasn't just his lover. I was the architect of his legitimacy, the woman who wrote the code that cleaned his dirty money. Yet, while I was here cooking his favorite steak, he had married a mob princess to secure her father's territory.

When Dante walked in smelling of expensive scotch and another woman's perfume, he didn't apologize.

"It's just politics," he said, loosening his tie. "You keep your allowance, your position. You just stay in the shadows a little longer."

He looked at me like I was a piece of high-end furniture. When I told him I was leaving, his face darkened.

"You can't resign from the Mafia, Seraphina," he sneered, blocking the door. "If you leave, I will burn everything you have."

He truly believed he was the King on the chessboard. He forgot that I was the one who built the board.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry.

I simply walked out, opened my encrypted laptop, and dialed the number of the one man Dante feared most.

"I'm cashing out," I said. "And I'm bringing the entire Gallo empire with me."

Chapter 1

Seraphina Caruso POV

I was guiding the blade through the A5 Wagyu for our seven-year anniversary dinner when the burner phone taped under the marble island vibrated against my knee.

It was a violent, buzzing intrusion that shattered the illusion of the life I had built with blood and code.

It was a device that shouldn't exist.

My hands frozen. The knife hovered over the crimson marbling of the raw meat.

I reached under the cold stone lip of the counter and peeled away the black electrical tape.

The screen lit up with a single, encrypted image.

It was a photo of a hand. A woman's manicured hand, resting on the lapel of a tuxedo I had personally commissioned from Milan three weeks ago.

On her finger sat a massive, emerald-cut diamond ring. The platinum band was engraved on the side, just visible enough to catch the light.

D.I.

I looked down at my own left hand.

I wore a copy of that ring. A perfect replica Dante gave me four years ago. It bore the exact same engraving.

He told me D.I. stood for Dante and I.

I zoomed in on the photo. The timestamp was from this morning. The location was the Cathedral of Saint Mary, the place where the Five Families sanctified their unions.

The caption read: Mrs. Isabella Gallo. Finally legal.

The oxygen was sucked out of the penthouse.

D.I. did not stand for Dante and I. It stood for Dante and Isabella.

For seven years, I wasn't just his lover. I was the architect of his legitimacy. I sanitized the Gallo family's dirty money through shell shipping conglomerates I designed. I negotiated truces he was too hot-headed to manage. I was his Consigliere in everything but name, hiding in the shadows because the Commission wouldn't accept a woman at the table.

He promised me a ring. He promised me that once the old Don died, we would marry.

Instead, he married Isabella Falcone this morning to secure her father's territory, while I was here, prepping his favorite steak like a glorified servant.