His Heartless Betrayal: My Escape from the Mafia
For three years, I was the wife of Damian Costello, a feared mafia underboss who I believed was my savior. I lived in a gilded cage, mistaking his possessive passion for love.
Then, on the day my father was executed, I discovered my marriage was a lie. A photo proved my husband was in Paris, not for business, but to chase the one woman he had always loved: my aunt, Isabella.
I was just a substitute, a younger version of her he could own. He had staged the ambush where he "saved" me, and he only wanted a child with me for my family's eyes.
His obsession was absolute. When a tureen of scalding soup flew toward us in a restaurant, he didn't shield me, his pregnant wife. He threw himself in front of Isabella.
He even screamed at me in front of everyone, "In my heart, Seraphina will never be as important as you!"
I realized my child wasn't a product of love. It was the final piece of his collection—a living trophy.
So after he carelessly signed the annulment papers, I had an abortion. On the day he went into surgery to donate his second kidney to her, I left him a box containing the surgical report and our annulment decree. Then, I boarded a plane and vanished.
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Chapter 2
Seraphina POV:
Three hours after the procedure, I retreated into the silent penthouse. I spent the next day in a numb haze, my body aching, my soul hollowed out. On the second day, I stood before my vanity and applied my makeup like armor, carefully concealing the bruised exhaustion that had settled deep beneath my skin.
I found the butler, a man who had served the Costello family for forty years, polishing silver in the dining room.
"Alfred," I said, keeping my voice perfectly level. "I need you to have every piece of jewelry, every designer bag, every gift my husband has ever given me, appraised and auctioned."
He looked up, his expression unreadable.
"The proceeds," I continued, "are to be donated to a charity for victims of gang violence."
Damian walked in just as I finished the order, his brow furrowing. "What's all this?"
I didn't look at him. I stared at a painting on the wall, a swirl of angry reds and blacks. "I don't like them anymore," I replied, my tone clipped and cold. "Consider it a donation. For the baby's good fortune."
The lie tasted like ash in my mouth, but it served its purpose.
He didn't question it. He just pulled me into a possessive embrace, his lips brushing my temple. "We'll go to the next auction. You can pick out anything you want."
My phone rang, and I pulled away from him, grateful for the interruption. It was my uncle. His voice was warm, oblivious, inviting me to a welcome-home dinner for Isabella.
"I can't," I said, the excuse ready on my tongue. "My condition is a little delicate right now."
Before I could say more, Damian plucked the phone from my hand. His voice was smooth as silk. "We'll be there."
A knot of ice formed in my gut.
He hung up and looked at me, sensing the stiffness in my body. He softened his tone, the way a handler soothes a spooked horse. "It will be good for you to get out. A visit to the old family estate will lift your spirits."
The drive was a silent, suffocating affair. By seven, when we arrived, the dread was a physical weight in my chest. The Rossi estate was a sprawling mansion, a relic of old money and older secrets. As we got out of the car, Damian pressed a velvet box into my hand. "A welcome-home gift for your aunt."
Isabella's eyes widened slightly when she saw us walk in, his hand possessive on the small of my back. She looked from me to him, a polite, unreadable mask falling into place.
"And you are?" she asked Damian.
My uncle quickly made the introductions. "This is Seraphina's husband, Damian Costello."
A flicker of shock, quickly concealed. She recovered, exchanging pleasantries. I stepped forward and handed her the box. "Welcome home, Aunt Isabella."
She opened it, revealing a stunning sapphire necklace, the stones the exact color of her eyes.
"It's beautiful," she breathed.
"My husband picked it out," I said, my voice flat. "He has excellent taste."
During dinner, Damian was the image of a devoted husband. He barely ate, but he piled food onto my plate—steak, lamb, rich sauces—muttering about how I needed to eat for two. The family murmured their approval.
I stared down at the food I couldn't stomach, the scent making me nauseous. Across the table, I watched him. Isabella had been served the steak, just like me. But Damian knew she preferred seafood. Discreetly, when he thought no one was looking, he caught the waiter's eye and gestured to his own plate of pan-seared scallops. A moment later, the waiter appeared at Isabella's side, smoothly switching the plates.
It was a small, silent gesture. An act born of intimate, long-held knowledge—the kind I had never shared with him.
And it was a confession.