The Discarded Wife's Revenge On The Don

I didn't leave that night.

I couldn't.

Brennan had posted sentries outside my door, transforming my recovery room into a cell.

Two days later, he didn't just ask me to leave; he dragged me out of the hospital bed.

"The Gala," he commanded, adjusting his cuffs. "You have to be there. The Zimmermans are making a move on the South Side. I need to show a united front. A strong front."

"I look like a victim," I rasped, pointing to the ravaged skin of my face.

"Makeup," he dismissed coldly. "And wear long sleeves."

The ballroom was a suffocating cage of gold leaf and crystal.

I stood by the champagne tower, encased in a high-necked black velvet gown that served as both armor and a shroud for my burns.

The makeup artist had performed a miracle, plastering over the cut on my cheek, but the wound throbbed violently beneath the thick layers of foundation.

I watched Brennan.

He was circulating through the crowd, shaking hands, playing the benevolent King.

But he wasn't alone.

Debbi was there.

She wasn't hiding in the shadows, as a mistress should.

She was seated at the head table.

She was wearing stark, bridal white.

I watched, paralyzed, as Brennan walked over to the table.

He sat down.

Debbi threw her head back, laughing at something he whispered, and then-in front of the entire Chicago underworld-she settled herself onto his lap.

The room went deathly quiet.

This was a flagrant violation of the old codes. Mistresses were kept in the dark. Wives sat at the table.

Brennan didn't push her off.

Instead, he wrapped a possessive arm around her waist.

He tapped a silver spoon against his glass, the sharp ding-ding-ding slicing through the tension.

"Attention," he boomed.

The orchestra fell silent.

"Tonight is about legacy," Brennan declared, his voice projecting to the back of the room. "The Sterling Foundation has always been about the future. And tonight, I am transferring the directorship of the Foundation to someone who represents the new energy of this family."

He looked at me.

For a split second, a foolish hope flared in my chest-that he was going to apologize.

"To Debbi Foley," he announced.

Applause followed.

It was hesitant at first, rippling with confusion, then grew louder as the sycophants realized which way the wind was blowing.

My Foundation.

The one I had built brick by brick to honor my father.

He had handed it to the girl who had scalded me with boiling soup.

Brennan reached into his pocket.

He withdrew a black velvet box.

He snapped it open.

The diamond necklace inside glittered cruelly under the chandeliers. It was the "Sterling Star." An heirloom meant to be passed down to the firstborn daughter.

He clasped it around Debbi's neck.

She kissed him.

Deeply.

Publicly.

I felt the weight of a hundred stares pressing on me. Pity. Scorn. Amusement.

I couldn't breathe.

I turned and fled.

I crashed through the kitchen doors, ignoring the startled staff, and scrambled up the service stairs to the rooftop terrace.

I needed air. I needed to escape the suffocation.

I burst onto the roof, the biting Chicago wind slapping my face.

I walked to the edge, looking down at the street grid twenty stories below.

"It's a long way down," a voice drawled.

I spun around.

Debbi was there.

She was smoking a cigarette, leaning casually against the HVAC unit.

But she wasn't alone.

A man stood in the shadows of the ventilation shaft.

He stepped forward into the moonlight.

I recognized him instantly.

It was Luca Zimmerman. The brother of the rival Don. The sworn enemy of the Sterling Syndicate.

He was smiling at Debbi.

"You played your part perfectly, babe," Luca said.

Debbi smirked, exhaling a plume of smoke. "He's an idiot. He gave me the codes to the offshore accounts when he transferred the Foundation."

My blood ran cold.

"You're working with them," I whispered, the horror choking me.

Debbi looked at me, her eyes dead. "Oh, look who it is. The ex-wife."

"Brennan will kill you," I said.

"Brennan is wrapped around my finger," Debbi laughed, the sound brittle in the wind. "He thinks I'm his little angel. By the time he figures it out, the Zimmermans will own this city."

I turned back to the door.

I had to tell him.

Even after everything-the humiliation, the pain-the loyalty to the Family was hardwired into my DNA.

I yanked the door open and ran straight into a solid chest.

It was Brennan.

He had followed me.

"Brennan!" I gasped, grabbing his lapels desperately. "They are here. Luca Zimmerman. On the roof. Debbi is with him. She's a mole!"

Brennan looked past me, his expression flat.

Debbi was standing alone by the railing, gazing out at the view. Luca was gone.

"What are you talking about?" Brennan asked.

"Luca was just here!" I screamed, pointing at the empty shadows. "She's working for the Zimmermans!"

Debbi turned around, her eyes wide with feigned shock.

"What?" she cried, her voice trembling. "Brennan, she's hallucinating again. Just like with the soup incident."

"I saw him!" I shrieked. "Check the cameras!"

"There are no cameras on the roof," Brennan said coldly. "We disabled them for privacy."

He grabbed my chin, his fingers digging into my jaw, forcing me to look at him.

"You are sick, Alyssa. You are jealous, and you are sick."

"She has the account codes," I begged, tears stinging my eyes. "Please, Brennan. Just listen to me."

"Enough," he snapped.

He looked at me with pure, unadulterated disgust.

"You are ruining my night. Go downstairs. Get in the car. The driver will take you home."

"Brennan-"

"Go!" he roared.

I stepped back, the fight draining out of me.

I looked at him one last time.

I saw the man I had loved, and I saw the fool he had become.

"I hope she's worth it," I said quietly.

I walked past him.

I walked past Debbi, who offered me a cruel, singular wink.

I took the service elevator down to the alley exit.

I didn't go to the limo.

I turned left, heading toward the extraction point Carroll had set up for me.

I made it three steps.

A van screeched to a halt directly in my path.

The side door slid open with a metallic rasp.

Strong hands grabbed me before I could scream.

A rag soaked in chloroform was pressed hard over my face.

The world tilted and grayed.

The last thing I saw was the "Sterling Star" diamond necklace dangling from the rearview mirror of the van.

Debbi's necklace.

It was a setup.

And my husband had handed me right to them.