The Mafia Queen's Vengeance Rise of the Ferrante Heir

After they left the chamber, I shut the heavy oak door and turned the iron deadbolt until it clicked into place. The sound was small, but it echoed through me like a declaration of war.

I stripped the bed down to the mattress. Every sheet, every pillowcase that carried even a trace of the evening's indignity, I pulled free and replaced with fresh linens from the armoire. Then I put in my earbuds, lay back against the cool pillow, and forced myself into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, Rico found me in the corridor outside the kitchen. His jaw was set like cut marble, and the vein at his temple pulsed with a fury he didn't bother to conceal.

"What was that last night?" His voice was low, the kind of quiet that preceded violence in this household. "I knocked for twenty minutes, Camilla. Twenty. My mother and father woke up because of it. You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

I met his gaze without flinching. "Yes, I did it on purpose. I thought I'd give you the chance to share quarters with Mala. You should be thanking me."

Something shifted behind his eyes. He looked at me the way one might look at a dog that had suddenly bared its teeth. "Are you out of your mind, Camilla? Why would I sleep with Mala? You're my wife. You're La Sposa of this house."

"Oh, so you still remember that." I kept my tone flat, stripped of everything except cold fact. "I thought once Malavita Contarini walked back through those doors, I'd be out of the picture entirely."

As if summoned by the sound of her own name, Mala appeared at the far end of the hallway. She moved with the practiced grace of a woman raised in the parlors of powerful men, her dark hair swept over one shoulder, her expression arranged into something soft and concerned.

"Please, don't argue because of me." Her voice carried just the right tremor of guilt. "We're supposed to be leaving for the retreat. I'd never forgive myself if my being here caused tension between you two. That's the last thing I want."

Rico turned to me, and I watched the last flicker of doubt leave his face. "You see? You see how she handles herself? Mala has grace. She has class. Unlike you, with your petty games and locked doors."

The click of Donna Rosaria's heels preceded her arrival. The Matriarch stood in the doorway, her posture rigid as forged steel, her eyes surveying the scene with the cold efficiency of a woman who had managed this household's hierarchy for three decades.

"Camilla." My name in her mouth was never a greeting. It was always a correction. "Your temper is becoming a problem. Barring your husband from his own quarters? In this house, that is unacceptable. We will overlook it this once, since we are leaving for the gathering. But do not test me again."

Don Salvatore's voice rolled in from the adjacent room like distant thunder. He did not bother to step into the hallway. He didn't need to. "This is what happens when you show too much leniency. A husband is the head of his household. He is the heir to this Family. And she seals the door against him?" A pause, heavy with contempt. "Disgraceful. A bride like this needs to be reminded of her place. Sharply, if necessary."

Nicoletta materialized at her mother's elbow, a porcelain cup of espresso cradled in her manicured fingers. She sipped, smiled, and let the blade slide in with a giggle. "Careful, Camilla. With that temper of yours, my brother might just dissolve this arrangement altogether. And then where would you be?"

I caught Mala's eyes over Nic's shoulder. The mask of the concerned peacemaker had slipped, just for a heartbeat. Beneath it was something triumphant. Something that glittered like a knife turned in lamplight. She held my gaze, and the corner of her mouth curled with the quiet satisfaction of a woman who believed she had already won.

Rico said nothing in my defense. Not a word. He simply dragged all of the luggage across the foyer tiles and lined the cases up in front of me like a barricade.