The Jilted Mafia Heiress Takes It All

Ava Vitiello POV

Five years is a long time to bury a ghost.

Paris had been my salvation. The rain there washed things clean in a way New York rain never did. In those five years, I had taken the European division from a failing laundering front to a legitimate real estate empire.

I was no longer the Jilted Princess. I was the Queen of the Seine.

But blood always calls you back.

My father's seventieth birthday gala was mandatory. The entire Commission would be there.

I walked into the ballroom of the Pierre Hotel wearing a dress that cost more than Liam's life insurance policy. It was emerald green, backless, and dangerous—less a garment and more a declaration of war.

The room parted for me. Whispers followed in my wake.

"She's back."

"She looks lethal."

I took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and surveyed the room with bored detachment.

Then, I saw him near the buffet.

Time had not been kind to Liam Rossi.

He had gained weight. His hairline was receding, a losing battle against gravity. The sharp jawline I used to trace with my fingers was softened by cheap alcohol and too much stress.

He was wearing a suit that was clearly off the rack. The sleeves were too long, swallowing his hands.

He saw me.

He froze. The meatball on his fork slipped and fell back onto his plate with a wet splat.

He started walking toward me. He looked desperate. He looked like a man crossing a desert who just saw water.

"Ava," he said when he got close, his voice breathless.

I didn't smile. I didn't frown. I just looked at him like he was a piece of furniture I had sold at a garage sale and forgotten about until this very moment.

"Hello, Liam."

"You look... incredible," he stammered, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers.

"You look tired," I said.

He flinched as if I'd slapped him.

"Business is hard," he said, shifting his weight. "The market changes."

"I heard you're driving Uber on the weekends," I said coolly.

His face went red.

"It's temporary," he muttered, eyes darting around to see if anyone had heard. "Just until the next big thing hits."

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the entrance.

Voices were raised. Security was trying to stop someone.

"Let me go! I am his wife!"

The room went silent.

Sarah burst into the ballroom.

She looked like a wreck. Her hair was frizzy, her makeup was smeared, and she was dragging a ten-year-old Chloe by the arm.

Chloe was crying. Sarah was screaming.

"Where is he?" Sarah shrieked, her voice cracking. "Where is that lying bastard?"

She scanned the room wildly. Her eyes landed on Liam. Then, slowly, they slid to me.

Her face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hate.

I took a slow sip of my champagne.

"Your carriage awaits, Liam," I said softly.