CHAPTER 2

There are betrayals that wound.

There are betrayals that destroy.

And then, there are betrayals that burn everything to the ground.

Alessia Rossu never thought Matteo would be the one holding the match.

The night had been meant for celebration.

Wine flowed, laughter echoed through the opulent halls of Il Paradiso—the empire she and Matteo had built from nothing. A decade of blood, sweat, and sacrifice had led to this moment. They had been reckless dreamers once, but they had conquered Naples' underworld together.

Alessia had dressed for the occasion. A black velvet gown, soft yet commanding, hugged her curves. Auburn waves cascaded down her back, catching the light of the golden chandeliers. Her bluish-green hazel eyes shimmered, reflecting the joy she had once believed was unshakable.

For all the power she held now, she was still the same Alessia—the thick, plump girl who had loved Matteo since she was too young to understand what love meant. And Matteo had loved her.

Or so she had believed.

The moment she stepped into the VIP lounge, the air changed.

The laughter had dulled. Conversations had hushed. Eyes flickered toward her and then away. And at the center of it all stood Matteo.

A glass in one hand. His other resting too loosely at his side.

Tall, 6'0", with an effortless, almost lazy posture that made him seem untouchable. Tousled dark brown hair, as though he had raked his hand through it one too many times. Olive-toned skin glowing under the dim lights. And those eyes—bluish-brown, deep, enigmatic—lingered on her for a second too long.

Matteo was nervous.

Matteo was never nervous.

Then she saw him.

Salvatore Grillo.

A name that made men flinch.

A man they had nearly bled themselves dry to break free from.

And yet here he was, sipping whiskey like he owned the place.

Alessia stopped cold.

Her voice was steady, but her heart was not. "Why is he here?"

Matteo flinched.

Grillo chuckled. "That's no way to treat an old friend."

"You're not my friend."

"No," Grillo agreed, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "But I am Matteo's."

The words barely registered before she saw the table.

Stacks of papers. Thick files.

Her name—Alessia Rossu—printed in bold across the top.

Bank statements. Offshore accounts. Property deeds. Coded transaction logs—ones that could only be traced back to her.

The air drained from her lungs.

The entire empire was under her name.

Matteo's voice was quiet. "We need to talk."

But she barely heard him.

Because she knew what this was.

These weren't just financial records. These were federal documents. The kind that didn't belong in a nightclub. The kind that found their way into courtrooms. The kind that got people killed.

Grillo leaned forward, a smirk playing on his lips. "You were always the smart one, Alessia. You know what this is, don't you?"

Her throat felt like sandpaper. "No."

Grillo smiled. "It's your escape plan."

Her blood turned to ice.

She turned to Matteo. "Tell me he's lying."

Matteo said nothing.

He didn't need to.

It was all right there, in ink and paper.

The properties? Sold.

The accounts? Liquidated.

The empire they built? Washed clean in her name.

Not Matteo's name. Hers.

He had been moving assets for months. Cutting deals. Covering tracks. And in doing so, he had made her the fall guy.

Alessia swayed where she stood.

This wasn't just betrayal.

This was a setup.

She sucked in a breath, forcing steadiness into her voice. "You're handing me over to the feds."

Still, Matteo said nothing.

It wasn't rage that hit her first.

It wasn't even heartbreak.

It was disbelief.

Because Matteo—the boy who had once held her hand under the Naples streetlights, the man who had built an empire by her side—was silent.

Letting it happen.

"You swore to me," she whispered, gripping the edge of the table to steady herself. "You swore I was safe with you."

Matteo finally exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. "I had no choice."

She let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "There's always a choice."

Grillo clicked his tongue. "He made the right one."

Her gaze snapped to him. "You." Her voice was soft. Deadly. "You own him again."

Grillo spread his arms. "Not entirely. But he made a deal. You were the price."

She felt sick.

Matteo—her Matteo—had sold her.

No.

He had sacrificed her.

To save himself.

To save the empire.

To keep Grillo from burning it all to the ground.

Matteo finally met her gaze, and for the first time, she saw something in his eyes.

Not denial.

Not regret.

Guilt.

And that was worse.

Because it meant he had done this thinking it was for her.

That he had convinced himself she would understand.

That she would forgive him.

Alessia's hands curled into fists.

Grillo watched her carefully, waiting to see what she would do.

Run?

Cry?

Beg?

But Alessia Rossu had never begged for anything in her life.

So she did what no one expected.

She laughed.

Low. Cold.

Grillo arched a brow. "Something funny?"

Alessia reached for the glass of wine Matteo had poured earlier. Took a slow sip. And turned to Grillo with a smile.

"You should have killed me tonight."

Grillo smirked. "Why? So you could haunt me in the afterlife?"

"No." She set the glass down. "Because the next time we meet, I'll be the one holding the gun."

Then she walked away.

Not once did Matteo stop her.

Not once did he call her name.

By the time the sun rose, Alessia Rossu was dead.

And in the ashes of that betrayal—

Sasha was born.

Matteo didn't just leave her.

He didn't just betray her.

He used her.

He saved himself.

He saved the empire.

And he threw her to the wolves to do it.

But what he didn't realize—what none of them realized—was that the woman who walked away that night wasn't the same one he had betrayed.

And the next time they saw her…

She wouldn't be a victim.

She would be vengeance.