Bleeding For A Lie: His Cruel Betrayal

For two years, I worked double shifts at a dingy laundromat, scrubbing blood out of suits until my hands were permanently raw. I starved myself to pay off a massive mafia debt my boyfriend, Dante, supposedly owed.

But one day, the city's untouchable Mafia Princess walked in and revealed the cruel truth. Dante was the billionaire Don himself, and my suffering was just a sick undercover game he played to test my loyalty.

Instead of ending the charade, Dante looked at me like I was invisible trash. He allowed his fiancée to frame me for theft, fired me, and forced me to kneel on the freezing concrete outside his headquarters.

When his fiancée stole my severance and sent rogue soldiers to destroy me, I frantically called him for help while coughing up blood.

"You are a degenerate gambler. Do not ever contact me again."

He hung up the phone, leaving me to be brutally assaulted by the monsters until my bones snapped.

Lying on my ruined floor, I couldn't understand how the man who used to whisper my name in the dark could be so merciless. I had bled my soul dry for him, only to be discarded like a liability.

With my spirit entirely shattered, I typed out one final message.

"If I die, will you regret it?"

I stepped out of the eighteenth-floor window and let the wind swallow me whole. I never expected that days later, the untouchable Don would find my hidden love letters, go completely mad with grief, and step off that exact same ledge.

Chapter 1

Mia POV

The terms were plain: if I did not deliver my wages for the month to the underground collectors by midnight, the mob would murder the man I loved.

But as I stood there, counting a fistful of crumpled bills with fingers raw from bleach, the city's untouchable Mafia Princess drifted into my dingy laundromat.

A cruel amusement played on her lips as she let fall the fact that her billionaire fiancé—the Don himself—was engaged in a sick undercover game with some "stupid girl."

Serena stood at the center of the room, the needle-point of her heels striking the cracked linoleum with the sound of chipping ice. She carried the scent of a perfume I could not name, and of money so old it had no smell at all.

I smelled of industrial lye, chlorine, and the stale perspiration of fear.

For two years, I had held down double shifts in this mob-run establishment. A permanent ache had settled deep in my joints, and the skin of my hands was perpetually chapped from scrubbing blood and grease out of fine-wool suits. I did it all to service a fictitious $200,000 blood debt my boyfriend, Dante, supposedly owed to a ruthless Capo. I had starved myself thin, collapsed from malnutrition on two separate occasions, and never once voiced a complaint, so that he might not carry the burden alone.

Serena regarded me with a profound disgust, her acrylic nail with its French-white border scraping a faint 'hiss' against the cheap, coarse weave of a laundered shirt on the rack.

"My fiancé allots me $5 million a month for acquisitions," she said, a cruel smile shaping her red lips. "It is a source of great amusement to him, this charade of the poor, indebted man. He finds it entertaining to watch a pathetic thing bleed for him."

A frigid stillness washed over my body, as if I'd been plunged into ice water. A knot formed in my throat, but I shook my head, refusing to let the venom of her words find purchase.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I said, my voice a tremor that I fought to keep fierce. "My boyfriend works three jobs to survive. He is loyal, and he loves only me. You're just inventing cruelties to mock people who have to work for a living."

Serena just laughed again, a high, mocking sound that made the empty room seem vast and cold.

Before she could answer, the heavy metal door swung open with a groan of stressed hinges. Through the grime on the glass, I saw a bulletproof luxury SUV idling at the curb. Two large men in dark suits entered first, their gaze sweeping the room with a practiced, dead-eyed efficiency.

Then, he walked in.

The man who entered was the living embodiment of power and violence. He wore a bespoke suit that cost more than my life, and his dark eyes held the cold, detached authority of a man who ruled the city's underworld. When he drew near, the laundromat owner, a man who routinely shouted at me for using too much soap, began desperately trying to hide his trembling hands in the pockets of his apron.

"This place is a filthy front, Serena," he said, his voice deep and commanding. "Why are you wasting your time in this hovel?"

The air in my lungs seized.

A pressure, like a physical hand, closed around my heart. I knew that voice. I knew the exact cadence, the rough edge of it, and the way it sounded when he whispered my name in the dark.

It was Dante. My Dante. The desperate, broken man I had been killing myself to save.

I stood motionless behind the warped laminate counter. I did not dare turn around. To turn around was to permit the illusion to be torn apart, and for my world to end.

"I was just collecting my dry cleaning," Serena purred, walking over to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Besides, I find my card has been exhausted."

Dante let out a low chuckle—a sound that made my stomach lurch into a cold, empty space. He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen a few times.

"I have just transferred $2 million in blood money to your account," he said casually. "Go buy whatever you want, my Queen."

He kissed her.

I could hear the wet, obscene sound of their lips meeting. I was made to listen as he tenderly compensated his Mafia Queen, right in front of the girl who was destroying her own body to pay his fake debts.

A wave of nausea rose in my throat. My fingers, as if suddenly drained of blood, lost all sensation. The plastic handle of a heavy container of industrial detergent slid from my numb grasp. It crashed to the floor, the viscous blue liquid spilling everywhere.

The sudden, loud crack of the plastic against the tile was so jarring that I spun around on instinct, my hands flying up to my chest.

Dante looked over Serena's shoulder, his dark eyes landing on me. There was no recognition in his gaze, only the flat, unreflective look one gives to an inanimate object.

"You are clumsy," he stated, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Get this mess cleaned up."

Serena leaned against his chest, a malicious glint in her eyes. "Oh, don't be too hard on her, Dante. This pathetic girl is working herself to death to feed her poor boyfriend. She is very devoted."

Dante fell into a dark, heavy silence. His jaw tightened, and a dangerous shadow crossed his face. He looked at me—truly looked at me—and I saw the paranoid mafia boss fully eclipse the man I thought I knew.

"Serena, go wait in the car," he ordered softly.

She pouted but obeyed, her heels clicking away until the heavy door shut behind her.

Dante stepped closer to the counter. The sheer force of his presence made the air in the room feel thin and hard to draw.

"Why are you working at this specific front?" he asked, his tone sharp and accusatory. "Who told you to come here?"

I could not speak. Tears burned my eyes, but the paralysis of shock kept them from falling.

"I just wanted to help you," I whispered, my voice cracking as if under a great weight.

His expression hardened into a mask of pure ice.

"Listen to me very carefully," he said, leaning in close enough that the scent of his expensive cologne, a scent I once loved, now felt like a violation. "You will maintain absolute silence about my identity. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, you will understand exactly why I rule this city."

The laundromat boss—a low-level Familia associate—rushed out from the back room, sweating profusely at the sight of the Don in his squalid little shop.

"Fire her," Dante commanded, his gaze fixed on me. "Withhold her final wages to pay the Familia taxes."

The boss nodded frantically, his terror of the Don a palpable thing that smothered any pity he might have had.

"You're fired, Mia," the boss snapped. "Get out."

Dante turned his back on me and walked out the door without a backward glance.

I watched helplessly through the dirty glass window as he opened the door of the SUV for Serena. His hand rested on the small of her back before they drove away, leaving me with nothing but the acrid smell of spilled detergent and the wreckage of a reality that no longer existed.

As the SUV disappeared around the corner, my phone buzzed with a text from the collectors: "Tomorrow. Midnight. Don't be late." I had no job, no money, and no one left to save—except myself.