I took a bullet meant for the DeLuca family, bleeding out on the pavement while my husband's phone rang in the distance. He didn't answer—he was too busy comforting *her*, the woman who'd texted about a headache while I fought for my life. For three years, I'd been the perfect mafia wife, enduring his coldness, his mother's cruelty, and a loveless marriage arranged for power. But surviving an assassination attempt has a way of clarifying things, and I'm done being the sacrifice everyone expects me to be. They should have made sure I died on that street, because the woman who crawls out of this hospital bed won't be the one they tried to bury.