On Our Ninth Anniversary, He Brought His Pregnant Mistress Home

Bianca's POV

When we arrived at the compound, he helped the nauseous, morning-sick mistress up to the master suite and told the cook to make her favorites.

On his way back downstairs, he saw me heading toward the guest wing, dragging my suitcase behind me.

He paused, then muttered to the cook, "Make two more dishes. The ones Bianca likes. Set three places."

That actually caught my attention. Was that remorse? A flicker of guilt? A weak, pitiful attempt to play house while his mistress slept in the room we once shared?

I didn't know whether to laugh or spit. He couldn't remember the day we met, but sure, go ahead and have the cook whip up my favorite meal. Maybe he thought a plate of grilled rosemary lamb could undo what he did to me.

I clenched my jaw, said nothing, and kept walking.

I stepped into the guest room, closing the door quietly behind me. The silence was heavy, as if the walls themselves knew I didn't belong here anymore. Somewhere deep in the house a grandfather clock ticked, measuring out the last hours I intended to spend under a Valente roof.

I set my bag down on the edge of the bed and knelt to unzip it. The second the zipper peeled open, I stopped cold.

All of my clothes had been shredded. Torn into ribbons with clean, deliberate cuts. Damn it. But tucked deep into the lining, right where I'd hidden them, my passport and documents remained untouched.

For a second, I just sat, stunned. Who would do this?

I didn't have to think long. Of course it was Serafina. Who else would be petty and cruel enough to tear my things apart like this? But I had no time to confront her. Not now.

Let her think she'd won. I had more important things to do, like getting out of here alive.

I was crouched by the bed, shoving the last few salvageable items into my bag when I heard the door creak open behind me.

Serafina stood in the doorway, one hand hanging lazily at her side, holding a small black bottle. Her eyes roamed the room like she was touring a crime scene, nose practically wrinkling at the decor. Then her gaze landed on me, and if looks could kill, I'd be ashes already.

"Wow, Bianca. You're really something. After all the humiliation I've put you through in front of every Don and Donna in the territory, you still cling to this family like a tick."

She tilted her head mockingly.

"Oh, right. Your grandmother passed last month, didn't she? Now that your only real family is gone, of course you're clinging to Dominic like he's your last lifeline."

Then she giggled. The sound bounced off the bare walls of the guest room, thin and deliberate, the kind of laugh that was meant to land like a slap.

"Remember how you begged him to fly you out to see her one last time? You know why he didn't?"

She waved her phone.

"Because he promised to take me to the coast that day. We watched the sunset together. This kiss photo? Taken right then."

Her words hit me slowly, like cracks spreading through glass. The more they sank in, the more something inside me started to boil.

She'd known. She knew what she was doing when she showed me that photo. When she talked about the helicopter. My grandmother. That day I'd begged Dominic, on my knees, to let me see her one last time.

And he chose Serafina.

The weight of it all pressed down on me. My jaw clenched, fists tightening at my sides as the room spun with heat and rage. Something dark stirred inside me, growling low, just as my self-control snapped.

"You think this is funny?" I hissed. "You think tearing down what little I have left makes you what? His Donna?"

Serafina raised her brows, smiling like a snake. She touched the hollow of her throat, fingers resting there with a softness that made the next words land like venom. "I don't need to be Donna. I already have everything."

"You have nothing," I snapped. "You're a parasite. A leech clinging to scraps."