Beneath the Mafia Crown

Everyone in the Mafia knew that Viktor Castro, Don of the Castro family, adored his wife.

When I complained that New York winters were too cold, he wiped out a rival Miami crew just to claim a private estate where I could escape the snow.

When I told him I wanted romance, he lit up the Manhattan skyline and swore on the honor of his family:

"Isabella, I will never betray you."

He planted roses for me at the old family estate in Sicily and vowed before the heads of the family that I would be the only woman he would ever love.

He broke a century-old rule and handed me control of the family's most important businesses, giving me authority equal to his own.

But tonight, tangled in our sheets, I found a pair of black lace panties.

And they were not mine.

I stared at the black lace panties in my hand, momentarily frozen.

Today was our wedding anniversary.

Viktor had told me he rented out the entire beachfront hotel so we could celebrate alone.

The sound of running water stopped.

Viktor stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, droplets sliding down the hard lines of his chest. Even after all these years, he still carried that dangerous, intoxicating presence that made people instinctively look at him twice.

He walked toward me with the warm smile a husband should have on an anniversary night.

I threw the panties at him.

"What is this?"

The lace fabric fell onto the carpet.

For the briefest second, Viktor's gaze darkened. Then his expression returned to normal as if nothing had happened.

He smiled and pulled me into his arms, resting his chin lightly on top of my head.

"The hotel staff must've missed it while cleaning. Don't let something this disgusting ruin our anniversary."

I pushed him away and reached for the room phone.

"I'm calling the hotel manager."

His hand immediately closed around my wrist, firm enough to stop me.

"Bella, I'll handle it. You don't need to worry about something so trivial."

Then he buttoned his shirt and left the suite.

I sat on the edge of the bed, bored and restless, scrolling through Instagram on my phone.

The algorithm pushed a new post onto my feed.

It was from Mia, Viktor's half-sister.

In the photo, she was posing provocatively in a pair of black lace panties. The caption read:

'Lost my favorite lace panties. So sad~ Every time I wear them, my boyfriend makes me feel amazing.'

Below the post, an anonymous account had commented:

[Don't be sad, baby. They're with me.]

My fingers tightened around the phone as I enlarged the photo.

The design. The lace pattern.

They were identical to the pair I had just found tangled in our bed sheets.

I zoomed in further on the background.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows stretched a crescent-shaped shoreline that matched the exact view outside the presidential suite I was staying in.

My fingers