"You heard me. Says she's not his daughter, not his problem. Washing his hands of the whole mess."
Rage boiled up inside me, hot and swift. That bastard. That fucking bastard. He'd set her up, sold her out, and now he was throwing her to the wolves.
"Boss?" Domenico's voice cut through the red haze. "What do you want to do?"
I looked toward Valentina's room, thought of her sleeping there, trusting me to keep her safe. Thought of Marco, smug and self-righteous, thinking he could play us all like pawns.
"We do nothing," I said, ice replacing the fire in my veins. "Let him talk. Let him think he's won. And then…then we make our move."
"Which is?" Domenico asked.
I smiled, cold and cruel, and hung up.
I sat in the darkness, whiskey untouched, mind racing through scenarios and countermoves.
Marco thought he'd backed me into a corner. Thought the blood debt would force my hand. Thought I'd deliver his daughter like a good little soldier.
He was wrong.
Tomorrow's press conference was just another move in his game. Another manipulation. Another lie.
Let him play it.
Let him feel safe.
Because the moment Marco DeLuca stopped seeing me as a threat was the moment I'd have him exactly where I wanted him.
I looked toward Valentina's room, where she slept trusting me to protect her.
I would.
Even if it meant burning down everything my family had built.
Even if it meant war.
CHAPTER 4
Valentina
The whiskey glass trembled in my hand as I stared at the television screen, watching my father destroy me with surgical precision.
"Valentina has struggled with her mental health since her mother left us." Marco's voice was measured, sad, the perfect blend of concern and heartbreak. "I'd hoped the wedding would give her stability, something to focus on. But the pressure… it was too much."
The reporter leaned forward, sympathy etched across her features. "Can you give us specific examples of this instability?"
My father sighed, a man burdened by terrible knowledge. "Last month, she accused our housekeeper of stealing jewelry that was later found in her own drawer. The month before,she missed three appointments with her thesis advisor because she'd convinced herself the university was monitoring her movements." He paused, letting the words sink in. "These aren't isolated incidents. There's a pattern of paranoia, of creating elaborate scenarios where she's the victim."
Lies. All of it. The jewelry incident never happened. I'd never missed a single meeting with Dr. Wei. But the details were too specific, too polished. Too believable.
"Mr. DeLuca, some might say this press conference is harsh—"
"I love my daughter." Marco's voice cracked perfectly. "But I can't enable her delusions anymore. If she's watching this, I hope she knows I'm doing this because I care. Because she needs help I can't give her. Professional help."
The glass slipped from my fingers, bouncing off the leather ottoman. Whiskey spread across the Persian rug like blood.
This wasn't damage control. This was prewritten. Waiting to be deployed the moment I became a threat.
Every word was a strategic knife, designed to ensure no one would believe me if I tried to expose what I knew. My photographic memory, the emails I'd seen, the conversation I'd overheard—none of it would matter if I were labeled mentally unstable. If everyone believed I fabricated elaborate scenarios where I was the victim.
