99 Roses for the Underboss's Wife

I was the brilliant money launderer for the most feared syndicate on the East Coast, and the fiercely loyal wife of its Underboss, Dante.

While I worked sleepless nights to build his underworld dominion, he secretly diverted my operations to fund a luxury club for his naive barista mistress.

When I confronted them and publicly exposed her, Dante didn't show a shred of guilt.

Instead, he slapped me across the face in front of the entire syndicate.

He draped his tailored jacket over his crying mistress to shield her, then turned his cold eyes on me.

"Apologize to her right now, or I will send every single soldier in your crew to the slaughterhouse."

He then weaponized the mafia's whisper network to destroy my reputation, painting me as a hysterical, paranoid woman just to legitimize his affair.

For years, I had blindly endured his psychological torture, believing my devotion would eventually earn his respect.

But looking at the brutal purple handprint on my cheek, and the ninety-nine dried bouquets of white roses he kept in the attic to carelessly patch over his toxic abuse, my heart finally turned to ice.

I didn't throw a tantrum, nor did I beg for his love anymore.

I left his apology blood diamonds on the table, drafted my mafia severance papers, and walked out of his territory for good.

This time, I would build my own empire, and let him drown in the ruins of his.

Chapter 1

Siena POV

The neutral territory of our syndicate's espresso bar smelled of steamed milk and burnt sugar. I stood listening to a naive twenty-something barista brag about her powerful mafia benefactor. My patience had already frayed to a single, taut thread when she casually slid a custom platinum Rolex across the marble counter—the exact watch I had personally engraved for my husband to celebrate his ruthless ascension to Underboss.

The heavy timepiece caught the subdued, ocherous light of the cafe.

I stared at the intricate face of the watch. A knot of stomach acid rose, catching in my throat like a fish bone. I tried to swallow, but the muscles along my neck were as rigid as a drawn bowstring.

My husband was Dante.

He was the Underboss of the most feared syndicate on the East Coast, a man who had built his dominion on a mountain of skulls before he even turned thirty.

Dante possessed a feral dominance that was not worn, but inhabited; it was in the unsettling stillness of his hands and the weight of his silence, which made seasoned cartel leaders tremble and women weep for even a passing glance.

He was a predator in a bespoke Italian suit, a man whose power over the underworld was matched only by his suffocating need for control over me.

Lisa, a Capo in charge of our family's supply chains, leaned against the counter, her gaze falling upon the watch. Her eyes widened, a flicker of recognition crossing her features. The hand she had extended to take her cup was snatched back as if the cool metal had seared her skin.

She had just finished ordering three hundred boxes of syndicate-grade imported Italian delicacies for the syndicate's annual holiday distribution.

But sitting on the shelf behind the barista were three distinct, unmarked black crates. I recognized the particular wax seal on them at once.

They were the exact same privately sourced, prohibitively rare imports Dante had delivered to my penthouse every single year as a symbol of his wealth and supposed devotion. They were never for the syndicate; they were his personal hallmark.

"My backer left it on my nightstand last night," the barista, Chloe, said with a bright, oblivious smile. "He's so forgetful when he's in a rush."

Lisa cleared her throat, her eyes darting nervously toward me as the color drained from her face. She would not dare touch the Underboss's private effects.

"A shipment," Lisa muttered, grabbing her coffee and practically fleeing the shop. "I just remembered I need to track it."

Chloe wiped down the espresso machine, unaware of the invisible ligature that was tightening around my ribs.

She looked at me, taking in my tailored designer suit and the exhaustion that settled like a fine dust beneath my makeup.

"You always look so stressed when you come in here," Chloe said, her voice dripping with unearned pity. "You should really quit your syndicate job. It's not worth the wrinkles."

I braced my palms flat against the cold marble counter to stop their trembling.

"Is that right?" I asked, my voice dangerously hollow.

"Absolutely," Chloe beamed. "My backer handles all my laundering quotas for the year. He tells me I'm meant for bigger things than just making coffee. He's actually using his resources to help me open my own luxury club next month."

The acidic knot in my throat descended, settling deep in my chest like a cold, heavy stone.

I managed the legitimate fronts and the complex money-laundering operations for the entire family.

I was known as the Thorny Rose of the syndicate, respected by my soldiers and feared by our enemies.

Yet, my own husband constantly dismissed my value.

Just this morning, I had stood in Dante's massive, dimly lit office at headquarters, presenting a flawless new laundering route.

Dante had barely flicked his eyes over the files before tossing them onto the floor.

He had leaned over his mahogany desk, his dark eyes cold and dismissive, telling me my only duty was to look beautiful on his arm and let the real men handle the business.

He had purposefully sabotaged my operations under the guise of maintaining syndicate standards, slowly caging me in a subterranean vault that, no matter how many times I entered the correct code, could never be pushed open from the inside.

I had stormed out of his office, slamming the heavy oak door so hard the walls shook, seeking refuge in this very cafe to cool my temper.

Now, the bitter truth coated my tongue like ash.

Dante was not rejecting my operations because they were flawed.

He was rejecting them so he could secretly divert the family's smuggling routes and resources to fund the delusions of his hidden mistress.

"He sounds very generous," I managed to say, the words tasting like poison.

"He is," Chloe sighed dreamily. "He says I remind him of a fiery girl he used to know, before this life hardened her. You really should find a man who treats you like a queen, instead of letting your awful boss work you to death."

I turned away from the counter, the air in the cafe suddenly too thick to breathe.

I walked out into the crisp city air. The neon signs across the street bled into a dull red haze, and I could not hear the engine of my armored SUV over the faint, insistent buzzing deep within my ears as the driver held the door.

I did not yet know that this moment—standing on the curb with my husband's watch still burning in my mind—was the last time I would ever walk into that cafe as Dante's wife.