From Jilted Bride To Mafia Empress

Serafina's POV:

The silence lasted exactly thirty seconds. My phone buzzed again, this time from an unknown number. The text was short, its tone dripping with insolent arrogance.

Grand Hyatt, Presidential Suite, Room 8808. Dante is right here with me. You're welcome to come experience it for yourself.

Isabella.

Her persistence was almost laughable. She wasn't satisfied with a private victory; she needed an audience. She wanted to watch me break.

A cold, razor-sharp idea formed clearly in my mind.

She wanted a show? I would give her one.

I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number of an information broker who owed me a favor.

"I need Rocco Moretti's WhatsApp number," I typed. "He's Isabella Falcone's fiancé."

The reply came instantly.

"Were you invited?"

I texted back: I have a wedding gift to deliver.

A contact card popped up on my screen.

I added Rocco's number. He accepted immediately-clearly, a man who stayed on high alert.

Without so much as a hello, I forwarded him the photo of Isabella and Dante in bed. Then, I sent the audio recording of Dante's drunken confession.

Before the second message even registered as "Read," my phone started ringing.

I answered.

"Who is this?" Rocco's voice was tight, a low growl laced with suppressed rage. "Where did you get this?"

"My name is Serafina," I said evenly. "Your fiancée is currently in Suite 8808 with my ex-boyfriend. I believe she's waiting for us to catch them in the act."

A sharp intake of breath echoed through the line, followed by a long silence as he fought to leash his temper.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was dangerously calm.

"Your address."

"I'll be downstairs. Give me a minute to change."

I hung up and strode into my closet. I pulled on a black tracksuit and running shoes, tying my hair back into a severe, no-nonsense ponytail.

The mirror reflected a stranger. Her eyes were calm, but deep within them flickered a lethal intent.

This wasn't about jealousy anymore. It was about honor-his, and mine.

Downstairs, a black Maybach idled at the curb, its engine purring with a low rumble. Rocco leaned against it; he was a massive man, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that did nothing to hide the raw, violent power coiled beneath.

Our eyes met, and in that instant, an unspoken understanding passed between us.

We were strangers bound by betrayal, yet suddenly, the most perfectly aligned allies.

At the hotel, Rocco didn't make a scene. He simply murmured a few words to the duty manager, flashed something from his wallet, and walked away with a master keycard for Suite 8808.

Standing outside the door, I could hear Isabella's shrill laughter bleeding through the wood. The sound grated on my nerves, sending a chill down my spine.

I looked at Rocco and gestured toward the door, silently telling him to go first.

He gave a grim, singular nod.

I pulled out my phone and hit record.

With a soft beep, the lock disengaged.

Rocco shoved the door open, and we stormed into the suite.