Chapter 1

I had a fever burning at a hundred and two and wanted nothing more than to lie down in the dark, but my wife's lieutenant wouldn't hear of it. He kept me in the club's back office, buried under the Family's books until the small hours.

"Portia's off in the islands with her eighteenth consort," Rocco Greco said. "That makes me the man who runs the day-to-day now. Without my say-so, you don't so much as step past that door."

The bastard was doing it on purpose, angling for a place in line as my wife's nineteenth.

I wasn't having it. I called Portia directly.

She answered cold as a blade left in snow. "Rocco speaks with my voice. It's a little late work at the books, nothing more. Stop whining like a child."

That was the last blow I was willing to take. "Let's just dissolve the alliance."

Portia only scoffed. "Enzo, you really think you've got the stones to sever this? You're always running your mouth about it. But don't you forget, your mother's surgery still comes out of my strongbox every single month."

The line went dead, and within seconds Rocco had fired a message into the Family group chat.

[Enzo's threatening to walk out on the union again. You think he means it this time?]

Portia's vote came up instantly.

[Bluff]

This time, I was already halfway to the door.

This time, I meant it.

——

Enzo's POV

Word moved through the ranks like wildfire. The group chat lit up in seconds.

[Please. Pigs will fly before Enzo actually files to cut the alliance.]

[He's just talking for attention again. Somebody tell him to grow up.]

[Man lives off Portia's cash and still plays the diva. Without her he's back on the street, lol.]

Every soldier voted. [Bluff]

Portia was loving every second of it. She even dropped a screenshot into the chat, proof she'd just wired each of them a little "thank you" tribute for clowning me.

The men all thanked her, then took their turns carving me up for sport.

I only smiled to myself, tapped [Truth] on the poll, and typed one line.

[Already had my Consigliera draft the papers of release.]

Then I left the group.

Almost instantly, Portia messaged me directly.

[What the hell do you think you're doing? Trying to shame me in front of the whole Family? Want me to cut off your mother's treatment?]

I replied. [Go ahead.]

For eight years she'd held that threat over my head like a knife.

She never once put money in my hand.

Most days she forced me to eat other men's leftovers in the club kitchen, like some stray dog they let in out of the cold.

She made me shop for the gifts that rewarded her lovers.

Made me watch, while she kissed them, touched them, right there in front of me.

I lived in a half-finished room at the back of the estate, slept on flattened cardboard, and played the obedient husband just to keep breathing.

But that version of me? He'd had enough.

Last week I closed a major deal for the rackets, nearly coughing up blood to do it. But I got it done.

In front of the whole club, Portia had promised me forty-five thousand as tribute for the work.

That's enough to cover my mother's surgery.

And I have other offers now. A seat at another Family's table. Better money. Real respect.

So I started gathering my things, head pounding fit to split, ready to walk out for good.

That's when Rocco planted himself in the doorway.

"Who said you could leave?" he sneered.

I held up my resignation. "This."

He snatched it from my hand and tore it to shreds.

I looked at him, unimpressed. "There's no need to play tough, brother. If you're this desperate to be Portia's nineteenth, I'll do you the favor myself."

Coughing hard, I pulled a notebook from the drawer. "Here. Everything she likes, written down. Styles, gifts, positions."

Every time she took on a new consort, I was the one who had to run them through a few "training sessions."

I called it One Hundred Ways to Be Portia Falcone's Consort.

The son of a bitch grabbed the notebook and still wasn't satisfied. Instead he opened a video call in the Family group chat.

Within seconds the whole club had joined. Portia among them.

She was stretched out on a beach chair in the islands, cocktail in hand, grinning like the devil himself while Consort Number Eighteen worked oil across her half-bared body, his hands wandering where they had no business going.

"Portia," Rocco began, faking a tremor in his voice like a schoolboy running to tell tales. He licked his lower lip and his eyes flicked once toward the door behind him.

"Enzo's refusing to work. Tore up Family papers, shouted about walking out, called the both of us every filthy name he could think of. I don't know what to do with him anymore. It's your call."

This son of a bitch had already taken everything he wanted out of me and still wasn't satisfied. Now he was inventing sins and stoking the fire, all so he could kiss my wife's ring a little sweeter.