His Ninety-Ninth Act of Cruelty

My boyfriend, Dante Moretti—the Don of the Moretti family—was about to be exposed for an assassination.

When I learned I could take the fall for him, I didn't hesitate.

I did two years for him. Two years I'll never get back.

The sentence was brutal.

The moment I was granted parole, I rushed back to his estate.

Just before I pushed open the door, I heard him laughing with his men.

"Don Moretti, you're a genius. A revenge plot of this magnitude is a masterpiece."

He grunted in satisfaction.

"If I didn't need to shut her up, I'd have let her rot in there for a few more years, just for the hell of it."

"It's her fault Isabella took a bullet in that crossfire—her fault she had to hide out in Sicily to recover. But Isabella's coming back next month. And when she does, I'll make sure Alessia disappears for good."

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1

Through the crack in the door, I saw Dante on a high-backed leather chair that might as well have been a throne, the very picture of a man untouched by scandal. His men were still howling with laughter, flush with victory.

"Remember when you torched her gallery, making everyone think she was laundering money? She didn't dare leave her house for a whole month."

"And that time before her father's funeral? You swapped out her dress and made our little Principessa a laughingstock in front of all the families. Then we had her dragged into an alley to get her hand broken."

"That's ninety-three, counting this one."

"Just seven more, and you'll have a neat hundred acts of devotion for Isabella. She'll weep when she finds out."

A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. What I believed was a love to die for was nothing but a cold, meticulously plotted revenge.

I tried to turn away, but two years in prison had hollowed me out. My legs gave out, and I crumpled to the floor. The wound over my family tattoo ripped open, a searing pain shooting through me as blood bloomed across my prison uniform.

The lawyers had warned me not to plead guilty; my health was too fragile. But I’d done it anyway, to shield Dante from the fallout.

This was the most secluded study in the estate—a fortress of privacy. The moment I fell, they saw me.

Dante's expression curdled. "Alessia? You're out? What are you doing here?"

Before I could answer, he nudged the Capo beside him. "Get her on her feet. See to that wound. Now."

His men scrambled to haul me into a chair. Dante caressed my face, his touch a venomous imitation of tenderness.

He retrieved a dagger from the mantelpiece.

"The doctors are busy. Let me give you a proper welcome home myself, shall I? The doctors can patch you up later."

He sounded as gentle as ever. If I hadn't heard the truth, I might have mistaken the glint in his eyes for guilt. Now I knew better. It was all a performance.

It hit me then—not one visit in two years, but the second my parole was announced, he sent for me. It was all for his precious Isabella Ricci.

And I, like a fool, thought my loyalty had finally moved him. I knew he had loved her once, but I gave him my all anyway.

A fresh wave of pain seared through me. I squeezed my eyes shut, my jaw tight against the fire spreading across my shoulder.

Dante ripped open my sleeve, pressing the red-hot dagger directly onto my tattoo.

The smell of my own burning flesh filled the air as an agony unlike any other tore through me. I screamed, shoving him away with all my strength. He stumbled back, slamming into the desk with a grunt before kicking me out of the chair.

I curled up on the floor, clutching my shoulder, gulping for air. Just then, the family's private doctors burst in. One of them froze, his eyes wide at my blistering skin.

"Christ, what did you do to her? This isn't just a burn—it's a brand!"