Divorce, Mafia Princess Style

"It's all your damn fault!"

Chloe's voice screeched through the monitor, echoing off the rusted metal walls.

I watched from outside, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen.

The container was a dump—smelled like rust and sea rot. No windows, just a tiny vent letting in barely enough air to breathe. Light was crap, made the whole place feel like a coffin.

Damon was curled in a corner, bandaged up and ghost-pale.

Chloe loomed over him, all her fake sweetness gone.

"If you hadn't pissed off Vanessa, I wouldn't be trapped in this hellhole!" Her finger jabbed at him, voice cracking with panic and rage.

Took just a few hours for reality to slap her in the face.

This wasn't some rom-com fairytale. No white knight. No rescue. Just cold steel and consequences.

"Chloe, I..." Damon tried to sit up, wincing hard as pain shot through his chest.

That cocky tone he used to flash around me? Gone.

"Too late for that now!" Chloe snapped, pacing like a wildcat in a cage.

Her heels shrieked against the metal floor.

"I could've kept grinding at the bar, yeah—it sucked, but I was safe! But you—" She whirled on him, eyes lit with fury. "You said Vanessa was just some spoiled girl!

"You said she wouldn't touch me!

"You said the worst she'd do was throw a tantrum!"

Damon's face flushed. "I... I didn't think she'd go this far..."

"Go this far?" Chloe laughed, sharp and hollow. "She's a freaking mafia princess! What, you thought this was just some soap opera?"

She kicked a metal barrel—loud clang.

"The guards said some of those stains on the wall? Blood. And some... yeah." She didn't finish, didn't need to. Damon's flinch said it all.

Silence dropped like a weight. Just wind rattling the container and waves crashing somewhere far off.

They were buried deep in the docks. Even if someone heard them, no one would care.

"Damon." Her voice cracked, way softer now.

She edged closer, fear dragging her back to him. Like it or not, he was all she had.

She crouched beside him, fury melting into raw panic.

"Are we gonna die here?" she breathed.

"We're not," he muttered, jaw tight. "I'll fix it."

"How?!" Chloe grabbed his hand. "She crushed your ribs!"

"I'll beg Vanessa. Tell her I screwed up." He didn't believe it.

Now he finally saw just how dumb he'd been.

After three years in the family, he still thought he mattered. Thought he had pull.

Now he got it—he was nothing but a tagalong.

"Will she forgive you?" Chloe whispered.

"She will," he muttered. "She's still my wife."

Even he didn't buy that lie. Regret was already chewing him up inside.

Two hours later, he bribed a guard for an old phone.

With shaking fingers, he hit record.

"Vanessa... I was wrong. So wrong." His voice shook. "I never should've betrayed you. Never should've brought her into our home.

"I'll do anything. Whatever you want, it's yours. Just... forgive me."

"I love you, Vanessa. Always have." He was choking back tears. "Please... give me one more chance. I won't screw it up again.

"I'll prove to you I'm worthy of being your husband.

Five minutes of groveling. Pathetic.

A long fall from the cocky texts he used to send me.

Now, for Chloe's sake, he was sugar and fake promises.

Still a smooth talker. Just desperate now.

I wiped the message, eyes fixed on the window.

City lights blinked in the dark, cold and nosy—like this whole rotten world was watching.

"Signora, do you want to reply?" Sofia asked.

I tossed the phone down. "Nah. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we watch the show."