Seven Years as His Queen, Three Days to LeaveChapter 1

There was an unwritten rule among the Capital's underworld families.

When a man's new woman wanted to claim her place, the woman she was replacing had to remove the Matriarch's Ring in front of everyone and slide it onto the new woman's finger herself.

The day Domenico Corrado brought Olimpia Ferrante into the compound, every wife and mistress in the Capital's inner circles was waiting for me to tear his house apart.

I had been at Domenico's side for seven years. For that ring, I'd knelt in the Corrado family's ancestral hall for three days and three nights. I'd even taken a bayonet blade for him.

Everyone was certain I would never give up my place without a fight.

But when Olimpia walked up to me in her million-dollar couture, all doe-eyed innocence, and held out her hand—

I didn't make a scene. I calmly slipped the warm jade ring from my finger and placed it on hers.

Domenico stood nearby, swirling his wine glass, his eyes full of arrogance and satisfaction. The signet ring on his right hand caught the light as his thumb rolled it in a slow, deliberate rotation.

"Giuliana Valente. You've finally learned your place."

I lowered my gaze to my bare ring finger and said nothing.

What Domenico didn't know was this:

A month ago, every memory I'd lost had come flooding back.

I was the true-born daughter of the Valente Family, the most powerful Cosa Nostra dynasty on the Eastern Seaboard, missing for seven years.

In three days, my eldest brother's private fleet would land in the Capital to take me home.

——

The Corrado estate glittered that evening, its grand hall packed with silk gowns and tailored suits. Soldiers stood at every door, hands folded in front of them, eyes moving. The air smelled of expensive wine, fresh-cut flowers, and the faintest trace of cigar smoke drifting in from the terrace where the Capos held court.

Olimpia Ferrante raised her hand, showing off the Matriarch's Jade Ring to the circle of wives and associates' women around her.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by pitying, mocking glances cast toward the corner where I stood.

Domenico Corrado sat at the head of the table, his gaze drifting toward me every now and then. Two soldiers flanked the wall behind him, still as furniture.

Once Olimpia had soaked up enough admiration, she picked up a champagne flute and sauntered over.