Divorce, Mafia Princess Style

"Please, please—let us go!"

I stood outside the container, eyes on the monitor.

Damon was on his knees, shirt soaked with blood, one arm hanging useless.

Chloe crouched next to him—hair a mess, face wrecked, bruises blooming through ripped clothes.

"I messed up, Vanessa. I know that now." His voice cracked. "I'll do whatever you want."

"No more arguments. I swear." He glanced up at the camera, tears clearly fake.

I tapped the folder in my hand, smirking at the performance.

Three days ago, this guy was yelling for a divorce.

Now? On his knees, begging like some pathetic stray.

What a joke.

"Anything?" I said through the intercom, my voice bouncing off the steel walls.

"Yes! Anything!" Damon nodded like he saw a way out.

That flicker of hope in his eyes—he really thought I was going soft.

Sad. He still didn't get it.

"Even if I sell Chloe to the Mexican cartels as a plaything, you'd be cool with that?"

Silence.

Just the wind shaking the container and waves crashing in the distance.

Damon went ghost-white. Lips quivering. No words.

He looked at Chloe, stuck between fury and shame.

She stared back, terrified, begging him with her eyes—not now, not for love.

Survival came first.

"I... I..." He swallowed hard, then looked at me like I'd ruined his life.

For three years, everyone called him the Cortese tagalong. He had the house, the car, but zero respect.

He bought into the whispers, convinced he could be more than just Vanessa's husband.

Sure, I gave him everything, but at parties? He was a shadow.

Chloe made him feel like a king—soft, sweet, always saying the right thing.

With her, he mattered.

But now? One wrong move and he'd be shark food.

So he did what cowards do—fake it. Say what I wanted. Stick close to the money.

Used to be, all it took was a few sweet lines to score cars and watches.

"Hurry up and say it!" Chloe snapped.

Damon made his choice. Jaw tight, he spat, "Anything you want, I'll agree to it."

Then he let out a breath.

"Good." I gave a slow nod. "Looks like you finally get what obedience means."

His whole face lit up. Thought the nightmare was over.

Probably already dreaming up ways to earn my trust again.

Then sell us out to the highest bidder. Get his revenge nice and quiet.

"But..." I let the word hang, voice ice-cold. "Now you want to play weak? Kinda late for that."

The container door slammed open.

Blinding sunlight flooded in. They squinted.

Sofia walked in, hauling a busted duffel like it was trash day.

"By order of La Famiglia," she said, dropping it at Damon's feet with a loud thud, "You ain't Cortese no more."

Then came the file—straight from the Cortese Church tribunal. Black and white. His name wiped clean.

"You're out."

Thunder couldn't have hit harder. Whatever scrap of hope he had? Dead.