She Kissed His Rival to Make Him Jealous—The Mafia Boss Quietly Locked the Ballroom Doors

The penthouse was silent when Vivienne woke at dawn.

She had not slept. She had spent the night pacing the length of the master suite, staring out the floor-to-ceiling glass at the grey clouds suffocating the Manhattan skyline. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard the rattle of those heavy chains against the ballroom brass. She heard Declan’s mocking laughter. She felt the heavy, suffocating pressure of Mateo’s thumb wiping her mouth clean.

She walked out into the vast living room barefoot, wearing a black silk robe wrapped tightly around her waist. The fire in the double-sided fireplace was cold ashes.

Lorenzo stood by the front foyer, his hands folded in front of his waist. He looked up as her bare feet whispered across the dark hardwood.

“Mrs. Duca,” he said respectfully, though his posture remained rigid.

“Where is he?” she asked, her voice raspy from exhaustion.

“The boss is at the lower docks,” Lorenzo replied. “He had business to attend to before sunrise.”

“Business with Fitzpatrick?”

“Business with the city,” Lorenzo corrected neutrally. “He instructed me to ensure you remain inside today. For your safety.”

“My safety, or his pride?”

Lorenzo’s expression didn't change. He had worked for Mateo’s father before Mateo took over; he was as loyal as a hunting hound and twice as lethal. “Fitzpatrick’s family mobilized three crews in Queens around three in the morning, ma'am. After what happened at the gala, Fitzpatrick cannot afford to look weak in front of his lieutenants. If he catches you outside these doors, he won't kiss you this time. He will take you to force Mateo’s hand.”

Vivienne felt a cold weight settle in her chest. She had known the world she married into was violent, but Mateo had spent two years keeping her isolated from its reality. She had lived in a gilded bubble of museum galas, private jets, and designer boutiques, deliberately blind to the bodies buried beneath the foundations of the Duca empire.

Last night, she had burst that bubble with her own hands.

“I’m going to make coffee,” she murmured, turning away from Lorenzo’s impassive stare.

She walked into the sprawling marble kitchen, her mind churning. On the kitchen island lay the beaded evening bag she had dropped the night before when she came home. It looked ridiculous sitting beneath the bright morning recessed lights, a relic of an evening that had spiraled into madness.

She picked it up, intending to throw it into the trash can by the pantry. But as she lifted it, something clinked unnaturally against the bottom of the satin lining.

Vivienne paused.

She unzipped the tiny interior compartment where she kept her lipstick and emergency compact. Beside the gold tube of lipstick was a small, heavy silver object that did not belong to her.

Her breath hitched.

She drew it out with trembling fingers. It was an intricately engraved silver locket, suspended from a thin steel chain. It bore the crest of the Fitzpatrick family—a winged stag surrounded by thorns.

She flipped the locket open. Inside, where a photograph should have been, was a folded square of heavy parchment and a tiny, black microchip no larger than a grain of rice.

With shaking hands, Vivienne unfolded the paper. Written in sharp, arrogant cursive was a single sentence:

*He will never tell you why your father died, Vivienne. Insert the drive into an offline terminal and see what your husband really bought.*

The room seemed to spin.

Her father had died of a sudden massive stroke eighteen months ago—two weeks after she and Mateo were married. Mateo had held her while she wept at the cemetery. He had personally arranged the funeral, paid off her father’s remaining debts, and set up a trust for her younger brother in Switzerland.

She had spent eighteen months believing Mateo had saved her family from ruins.

Vivienne looked at the small black chip resting on her palm, its metallic edges glinting in the morning light. Declan hadn't come to the gala to mock Mateo. He hadn't flirted with her out of spontaneous desire.

The kiss wasn't just a provocation—it was a delivery system. He knew she was desperate. He knew she was angry. He had used her wounded pride to slip this poison into her hands right under the nose of the most dangerous man in New York.

“What do you have there, Vivienne?”

Vivienne gasped, her hand snapping shut around the locket.

Mateo stood in the entryway of the kitchen. He had removed his overcoat, but his dark grey dress shirt was rumpled at the collar, and his sleeves were rolled up to his forearms. There was a faint smear of dark grease—or dried blood—along the cuff of his left sleeve.