Divorce, Mafia Princess Style

I'd been gone three months, growing our turf.

Came home to find some chick in my robe, on my couch, sipping my wine.

I called security. Lesson time.

Then Damon—my husband, who only mattered because he married me—jumped in front of her.

"It was a drunken mistake. She's just some poor girl. You're not seriously gonna flip over this, right?"

I slapped him.

"A trophy like you thinks he gets a say now?"

Instead of shutting up, he asked for a divorce. For her.

Cool. I said yes.

He thought ditching me meant freedom. What he didn't get? Without me, he was nobody.

I came back from a three-month grind in Miami, opened the door, and boom—some random blonde was sprawled on my couch, rocking my silk robe and sipping my vintage red like she owned the place.

"Who the hell are you?"

She looked like she'd just stumbled out of a club—perfect makeup, long hair, fake confidence.

"Basement. Let her dry out," I told Marco, my shadow since forever.

"Wait!" Damon, my husband, came flying down the stairs, arms wide. "Vanessa, it's not what it looks like!"

Three months and this was the reunion? He looked like hell—thinner, hair a mess, shirt hanging half-off like he got dressed mid-sin.

"Not what it looks like?" I stepped closer, voice flat. "She's in my house. Wearing MY robe. Drinking MY wine. Wanna explain how that's a mix-up?"

The blonde stood, robe slipping off her shoulder like she rehearsed it. Smirked.

She opened her mouth.

I shut that down real quick. "Did I say you could talk?"

Dead silence.

Damon knew that tone. Three years in, he should've.

"I just... had too much to drink. She—" His voice cracked, scrambling for something—anything.

"She what?" I closed the gap, close enough to catch that cheap perfume still hanging on him.

"She's just a bar girl. Nothing happened," he lied, shaking. "You're always chill. I figured you wouldn't freak over something so minor."

Chill? Minor?

I stared at him.

Then slapped him. Hard.

Smack.

Echoed like a gunshot. He grabbed his cheek, blinking like he didn't believe it.

A red handprint flared up, hot and bright.

"You're a Russo clinging to this marriage like a life raft. What made you think you could act like you run a Cortese house?" My voice? All blade. "You're a prop. Stay in your lane."

"Vanessa—"

"Shut up."

I turned to Blondie. Sized her up. Early twenties, nice curves, but those eyes? Hungry.

"Name?"

"Chloe... Chloe Williams." Her voice trembled. Guess watching your sugar daddy get slapped around does that.

"Cute." I circled her slow. "That robe? Custom silk. Three grand. Looks better on fire."

"I... I can explain—"

"No need." I pulled out my phone. "Sofia, send Ms. Williams to the bar on 12th. Janitor shift. Tonight."

Her face went white. "No, please! I'll leave, I swear—"

"Too late. Your name's Trash Jan now." I looked down at her.

That bar? Total dump. Reeks of piss and broken dreams. The kind of place cockroaches check out of. A cleaning gig there was hell.

"You can't do this!" Damon lunged forward, desperate. "She didn't do anything!"

"Oh yeah?" I turned to him, eyes sharp as knives. "What else am I not allowed to do?"

He opened his mouth. Nothing.

He knew damn well how this works.

The Cortese Family runs this city.

And I'm the Principessa.

"Marco," I said cool, "if she refuses the job, strip her and drop her back at whatever sewer she slithered out of."

"No!" Chloe dropped to her knees, sobbing. "I'll go! I'll do it!"

I gave a nod.

Then looked at Damon. "Next time you bring a stray into my house, you both sleep with the fish."

Marco dragged her out. She threw Damon a look—hate and fear mixed in one.

Now it was just us.

He stood there, torn between rage and regret.

"Three months," I said, sinking into the couch like it was just another Tuesday. "I crush dock unions, expand our turf, and this is what you do to say thanks?"

"Vanessa, I—"

"Out of my face." I waved him off like trash. "Before you end up sweeping floors too."

He hesitated. Eyes burning.

Then stormed out and slammed the door.