Valentina first heard about Isabella Costa three years ago.

Beautiful.

Elegant.

Married to one of the Moretti captains.

Dead before thirty.

Officially, Isabella overdosed inside a hotel suite in Miami during a weekend trip with friends. The newspapers called it tragic. The organization called it unfortunate.

Nobody called it suspicious out loud.

But mafia women learned early how to recognize lies dressed in expensive funerals.

Valentina remembered the funeral vividly now as she stood inside another church on another cold Manhattan afternoon.

White flowers.

Black veils.

Gold crosses.

Widows pretending not to understand what really happened.

The church smelled faintly of incense and rainwater while mourners filled the pews beneath towering stained glass windows. At the front of the sanctuary rested a polished mahogany casket surrounded by candles and arrangements of pale roses.

Caterina Bellucci.

Twenty-nine years old.

Wife of another Moretti associate.

Found dead in her penthouse bathroom two nights earlier.

Official cause: suicide.

Valentina didn’t believe it for one second.

Neither did most of the women in attendance.

She could see it in the way they avoided eye contact with each other. The quiet tension beneath whispered condolences. The way nobody asked direct questions because everybody already understood the rules.

Don’t look too closely.

Don’t ask too much.

And never make powerful men uncomfortable.

Valentina sat beside Luca near the front pew while priests murmured prayers overhead.

Adrian stood several feet behind them near the church entrance.

Always watching.

Always armed.

Even inside a church.

Luca leaned slightly toward her during the service. “You look distracted.”

“I’m attending a funeral.”

“You’ve attended funerals before.”

“Yes,” Valentina replied softly. “Usually for men.”

A faint smile touched Luca’s mouth. “You’re becoming cynical.”

No.

She was becoming observant.

The priest continued speaking while rain tapped softly against stained glass windows overhead. Caterina’s husband sat in the front row near the casket looking appropriately devastated for photographers.

Valentina watched him carefully.

No tears.

No real grief.

Just performance.

She knew the difference intimately.

When the service finally ended, mourners drifted slowly toward the reception hall attached to the church. Wealthy men discussed business in lowered voices while women gathered near the wine tables pretending this was normal.

Valentina stepped away from the crowd the first chance she got.

The hallway beside the reception room stood quiet compared to the noise inside. Rain-darkened windows overlooked the church courtyard while old portraits lined the walls beneath dim lighting.

She needed a minute to breathe.

“You hated her husband too?”

The voice startled her slightly.

Mrs. Bianchi stood near the windows holding a glass of red wine, diamonds glittering beneath the low lighting.

Valentina exhaled softly. “Is my face that expressive?”

“No,” the older woman replied. “I’m just old enough to recognize surviving women.”

That answer settled heavily between them.

Mrs. Bianchi stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Caterina tried to leave him last month.”

Valentina looked sharply toward her. “Who told you that?”

“She called me.”

Cold spread slowly through Valentina’s chest.

Mrs. Bianchi continued quietly. “She asked if I knew lawyers outside the organization. She sounded frightened.”

“And now she’s dead.”

The older woman held her gaze steadily. “Yes.”

For several seconds, neither spoke.

The church suddenly felt colder.

Valentina looked toward the reception room where Luca laughed beside several politicians and captains, perfectly composed in his tailored black suit.

Beautiful monster.

The thought came instantly.

And terrifyingly easy.

“She wasn’t the first,” Mrs. Bianchi murmured.

No.

She wasn’t.

Isabella Costa.

Now Caterina Bellucci.

And suddenly all the disappearances, overdoses, accidents, and silent funerals began connecting into something much uglier inside Valentina’s mind.

A pattern.

Wives who knew too much.

Women who became inconvenient.

Women who tried leaving.

Her pulse slowed dangerously.

Because for the first time—

she realized she fit the pattern perfectly now.

Someone approached behind them quietly.

Adrian.

Valentina noticed him instantly before he spoke. His dark coat still carried traces of rainwater while his gaze swept the hallway automatically before settling briefly on her face.

“You disappeared from visual range,” he said calmly.

Mrs. Bianchi smiled faintly into her wine glass. “He says things like a husband instead of a bodyguard.”

Adrian’s expression didn’t change.

Valentina felt tension tighten invisibly through the hallway.

Interesting.

Mrs. Bianchi noticed it too.

The older woman studied Adrian carefully for several seconds before speaking again. “You’re the dangerous one Luca brought in recently.”

“Yes.”

“Russian?”

“Ukrainian.”

Mrs. Bianchi nodded slowly like that explained something important.

Then her attention shifted back toward Valentina.

“Be careful,” she said quietly. “Men become unpredictable when they feel control slipping.”

Before Valentina could answer, the older woman walked calmly back toward the reception hall, leaving silence behind her.

Adrian watched her go briefly before speaking.

“What did she tell you?”

Valentina crossed her arms loosely. “That mafia marriages are excellent for funeral businesses.”

“That’s not all.”

“No,” she admitted softly. “It wasn’t.”

Adrian stepped slightly closer. “What happened?”

Valentina looked toward the rain-covered courtyard outside the windows.

Then finally said the words aloud.

“I think Luca kills inconvenient wives.”

The hallway became very still.

Most people would have reacted with shock.

Denial.

Disbelief.

Adrian didn’t.

His expression hardened almost imperceptibly instead.

As if part of him had already suspected.

That frightened her more than anything.

“You already knew,” she realized quietly.

“No,” Adrian replied carefully. “But I know men like Luca.”

Something cold settled deeper into her stomach.

Because Adrian didn’t sound uncertain.

He sounded experienced.

Valentina lowered her voice further. “Caterina tried leaving him.”

“Who told you that?”

“Mrs. Bianchi.”

Adrian glanced briefly toward the crowded reception room where Luca remained surrounded by allies and expensive whiskey.

Then back toward her.

“You need to be careful now.”

The warning sounded sharper than usual.

More urgent.

Valentina laughed softly beneath her breath, though no humor reached it. “That sentence is becoming repetitive too.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

For several seconds, neither moved.

Rain continued sliding slowly down the church windows while muffled laughter echoed faintly from the reception hall beyond the corridor.

Then Adrian spoke again.

“Did Luca ever threaten you directly?”

Valentina looked at him carefully.

Not because she feared the question.

Because she suddenly feared the answer.

“Yes,” she admitted quietly.

Adrian’s jaw tightened once.

Tiny movement.

But enough.

“And if I try leaving,” she continued softly, “I think he’ll kill me too.”

This time Adrian didn’t even try hiding the anger in his eyes.