Reclaiming The Crown From My Ex-Husband

Serena's POV:

At the National Syndicate Summit, the flashing of camera lights pierced my vision. I reached up to smooth the lapel of my suit and suddenly realized that the Vitiello family signet ring was gone.

The ring that had been with me for ten years vanished into thin air. He stole it!

I looked up at Salvatore behind the podium, his cold and stern face seeming like a stranger's.

The expensive tailored suit couldn't hide the brutality of his early years rising to power through bloody slaughter. The oppressive aura he exuded was like a fierce beast.

A reporter in the front row stood up and asked, "Mr. Maroni, your underground network is now the largest in New York. In consolidating this power, who do you pledge your loyalty to?"

I instinctively held my breath. I am Serena Vitiello; it was my grandfather who personally placed the crown on his head, and it was my bloodline that gave him his success.

Salvatore leaned into the microphone, an arrogant curve lifting the corner of his mouth. "Chiara."

The hall instantly erupted into whispers, but I still straightened my spine, stood up, and looked at the family guards stationed at the exit.

"Find this Chiara," I whispered to the enforcer. He didn't nod, only his jaw tightened dangerously in acknowledgment. "Bring her to me."

The summit ended hastily. Ten minutes later, I pushed open the oak doors of the VIP lounge. Salvatore was pouring whiskey, not even sparing me a glance.

"Who is Chiara?" I asked, forcing myself to sound calm.

He took a slow sip of his drink, his cold eyes finally sweeping over to me. "Stop making a fuss, Serena. She's just an inspiration, a girl from the bottom who understands how street supply lines work."

"An inspiration?" I took a step closer, my high heels clicking against the floor. "You gave the credit to a street outsider instead of your wife, instead of the Vitiello family?"

His tall figure closed in, casting a shadow that enveloped me. "I built this network with my own hands, Serena. Your grandfather merely gave me permission. Stop questioning my decisions in public."

My gaze fell on his left hand holding the glass; he was wearing the syndicate signet ring.

"Where is my ring, Salvatore?" I asked coldly.

He waved his hand dismissively. "You lost it, probably left it at the penthouse. Stop your baseless suspicions. We have a reservation at the underground restaurant, let's go."

An hour later, we were sitting in a private booth at the family's underground restaurant, the air thick with the scent of cigars and red wine.

A nervous waiter brought over a porcelain plate and set it in front of me—pan-seared scallops.

My entire body stiffened. Salvatore knew very well that I was severely allergic to shellfish. Even a tiny bit would cause my airway to close up completely within minutes.

"Eat it." He leaned back in his leather chair, his gaze indifferent.

I pulled my eyes away from the plate and stared at his face. "I'm allergic to this, Sal. You know that."

"Of course I know." His voice was low and dangerous. "But you questioned me backstage. You need a reminder of who calls the shots. Eat it, Serena. Otherwise, I will make sure your frail grandfather receives a report about how his granddaughter betrayed the family."

Using my grandfather as a threat, he wasn't just testing my obedience; he was utterly trampling on my dignity. But I could only grip the silver fork, cut a small piece of the scallop, and force myself to swallow it.

"Good girl," Salvatore whispered with a sickening satisfaction. He stood up and tossed down a roll of cash. "I have business to attend to. The car will take you home."

He left without looking back. The moment he disappeared through the doorway, my throat began to burn violently, and my airway rapidly constricted. I stumbled, knocking my chair aside, and forced my way into the kitchen.

The head chef panicked when he saw me covered in cold sweat and deathly pale.

I shoved that large roll of cash to the side, the edges of my vision already starting to turn black.

"Call my private doctor," I forced the words out through the suffocating tightness. "If this dish ever appears in New York again, I will have your hands put in a box."

The chef nodded frantically and dialed the phone. I knew my airway was about to close completely, so I quickly pulled out my emergency epinephrine auto-injector and jammed it into my thigh without hesitation. The intense rush of medicine forced my airway open. I gasped greedily for oxygen, collapsing against the metal counter, panting heavily.

At this moment, a cold thought surfaced clearly in my mind:

My husband wasn't just disrespecting me; he was trying to erase me from his world entirely.