Done Playing My Mafia Husband’s Divorce Game

I've stood before a priest and sworn my vows to the same man seven times.

And for the seventh time, I've signed divorce papers in front of the family lawyer.

At our first wedding, the youngest Capo of the Throne family held my hand and promised, "From this day forward, my life is yours and yours alone."

But whenever his childhood sweetheart stirred up trouble and needed his protection, Carter's vow to me would conveniently become a sanctuary for her.

"Tessa's in trouble again, Maeve. For your own safety, we have to get a divorce for now."

The first time I was forced to divorce, I threatened him with the honor of our families' alliance, even vowing to expose his betrayal at a family gathering. His men dragged me out of the manor.

The third time I signed the papers, I humbled myself, sneaking into the family's private club just to catch a glimpse of him from afar.

By the sixth time, I had learned to quietly pack my few belongings in this house of lies, without putting up a fight.

My breakdowns and desperate, undignified attempts to save us were only ever met with Carter's reliable promise to remarry me, just before another round of the divorce game he played for Tessa's sake.

Until this time. After hearing Tessa was returning to New York from Italy, I didn't wait for Carter to speak.

I placed the signed divorce papers in his study myself.

Just like always, he casually set a date for our remarriage.

But he didn't know that day was the day I would disappear from his world forever.

My mafia husband married me seven times. And seven times, he made me sign divorce papers, all to protect his childhood sweetheart, who was always getting into trouble. He'd always say it was for my own safety, and just as he always did, he'd set a date for our remarriage.

He just didn't know that this time, when I handed him the divorce papers, there would be no remarriage.

"Tessa's back. Sign it, Carter."

I kept my expression carefully neutral as I slid the signed divorce papers across the vast mahogany desk and into his hand.

His long, well-defined fingers paused.

Carter looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

But he quickly regained his composure and expertly signed his name on the document.

This was the first time in all these years that I had beaten him to it, that I had been the one to initiate the divorce.

After signing, he took a sip of whiskey and casually assured me,

"The usual arrangement, Maeve."

"Give her a month to clean up her mess, and we'll get married again."

In the past, that empty promise wouldn't have been enough. I would have forced him to swear on a statue of the Holy Mother or sign a pact in blood just to feel secure.

But this time, my heart was a silent wasteland. I couldn't be bothered to respond.

"Maeve, I'm talking to you."

Carter's brow furrowed. My silence had clearly bruised his ego.

I just gave a slight nod.

"Yes, I heard you."

I turned and walked toward the closet, folding my clothes one by one and packing them into a small black suitcase.

When Carter said we would remarry, he would always keep his promise.

His word was his bond across the East Coast's underworld, and this was no exception.

It was just a shame we were never really like husband and wife.

Our marriage felt more like a periodically renewed arms deal, a routine transaction requiring the signing of two legal documents: a marriage certificate and a divorce decree.

Two useless papers a year. By now, twelve of them were piled up in the safe.

He had promised on our wedding day: absolute fidelity, as long as the marriage lasted.

And he did keep that promise, like a devout believer following doctrine.

That was why he needed to get divorced again and again, so he could have a legitimate reason to go clean up Tessa's messes.

Still, my unusual reaction today seemed to leave Carter at a loss.

After all, the memory of my hysterics and even my self-harm during our previous divorces was still seared into his mind.

"If you don't want to move out, I'll stay at a hotel this time..."

Click.

The latch of the suitcase snapped shut, and I cut him off. "No need. I've already arranged it with Ava. I'm staying at her apartment for a few days."

At the mention of Ava's name, Carter's face darkened.

Ava was the only woman who dared to curse him to his face.

"Maeve, don't tell me you're playing hard to get."

He scoffed, his eyes filled with a certain mockery. "You're not planning to hide in a corner of the club to spy on me again, are you?"

"Can't you live without a man? Without me?"

I knew exactly what he meant. He was afraid I would disrupt his "reunion" with Tessa.

After all, Tessa was in deep trouble this time and needed the Throne family's protector by her side, every second.

After our third divorce, I had secretly snuck into the family's private club, just wanting to see him from a distance.

Instead, I'd walked in on him at the shooting range, his arms wrapped around Tessa from behind, teaching her how to pull the trigger.

I couldn't stop myself from rushing up to confront him. The family members watching the spectacle all assumed I was still Carter's wife, and their gazes toward Tessa were filled with obvious disdain.

To protect Tessa from gossip, Carter ignored my tears of betrayal and had his men drag me out.

From then on, every time we divorced, Carter would publicly announce it within the family.

Everyone knew that the person Capo Carter held in his heart was the princess of the Costello family.

And I was just the obsessive, nagging wife he could never seem to get rid of.

I remembered once asking him to teach me to shoot, but he had refused. "Guns are dangerous, Maeve. You're not suited to them."

Now I understood. It was never about whether I was suited for it, only about whether he was willing.

But this time, he was worrying for nothing.

I picked up my suitcase. "Don't worry, Carter. This time, I won't disturb you two at all."

Carter studied me with suspicion for a moment. It wasn't until I had the door open and one foot out that he raised his voice, a note of urgency creeping in.

"We remarry on the 20th of next month. Don't forget your position as Mrs. Throne."

My steps faltered for a second.

What a coincidence.

The escape I had so meticulously planned was set for the 20th as well.