His Unwanted Wife, The Unbeatable Lawyer

For three years, I was the perfect Mafia wife. I ensured my husband Jared's suits were impeccable and his public image flawless. I even sat at tables with Russian killers and calmly translated the order to execute a man who betrayed our Family. My value was my composure and my loyalty.

The moment an internal memo praised Jared for his 'heroism' during the Mayland Warehouse Massacre, I knew our marriage was over. Because I was the one he'd left to die.

The memo was a masterpiece of fiction, claiming he made a split-second decision to protect the Family's "most valuable asset." That asset wasn't me, his wife, who was calmly negotiating with cartel members for our lives. It was Bianca, his fragile mistress, who was crying on the phone in a sector he was ordered to stay out of.

When I packed my bags and left, he had the audacity to call me hysterical. "You're my wife," he scoffed.

"Was I your wife at Mayland, Jared?" I asked. "Did you think of your wife for even a second while you were running to save your weak little woman?"

He was a coward who had ignored a direct order from a Don, and the Family was calling him a hero for it. But I had the proof: a thirty-second recording of his profound dishonor.

I wasn't just seeking an annulment. I was petitioning the Commission, and I was going to use that recording to burn his world to the ground.

Chapter 1

Caterina POV:

The moment the internal memo praising my husband for his 'heroism' during the Mayland Warehouse Massacre hit my inbox, I knew our marriage was over.

Because I was the one he'd left to die.

The memo itself was a masterpiece of fiction, meticulously circulated within the Stanley Family's secure network.

It painted Jared as a hero-a man of action who, in the heat of a cartel shootout, had made a split-second decision to protect the Family's "most valuable asset."

My hands were steady as I folded his last suit-the charcoal gray one he'd worn to meet the Chicago Don-and placed it carefully in his closet.

For three years, I had been the perfect, submissive Mafia wife.

I had ensured his suits were impeccable, his public image flawless.

I had even endured the humiliation of our wedding night, where he'd spent hours on the phone with his mistress, Bianca, under the guise of "Family business."

I had done my duty.

Now, his duty was done, too.

I packed a single bag: my essentials, the things that were mine before I became Mrs. Jared Stanley.

A call came through from my closest friend, Sofia-the daughter of a loyal Capo in our Family.

"Kathy, did you see it?" she raged, her voice a furious buzz over the phone.

"They're calling him a hero!

A hero for what?

For getting shot in a sector he was explicitly ordered to stay out of?"

I looked at my reflection in the darkened bedroom window.

A woman with cold, empty eyes stared back at me.

"I saw it," I confirmed.

"He's a coward!

Everyone knows it!"

I scoffed, a dry, humorless sound.

"They know he ran," I said.

"They just think he ran for the right person."

His 'instinct,' the report claimed.

His instinct was for Bianca Brooks, his fainting, fragile mistress-not for me.

Not for the wife who could sit at a table with Russian Bratva killers and calmly translate the order to execute a man who had betrayed her own husband's Family.

I remembered that day clearly.

The air had been thick with the smell of cheap cigars and fear.

The man on his knees was sweating, begging in Russian.

Jared hadn't understood a word.

But I had.

I had looked him in the eye, my voice a monotone, and delivered the sentence that ended the man's life, just as I was trained to do.

Precision.

Composure.

That was my value.

I walked to my personal safe, hidden behind a false wall panel.

Inside, next to my emergency passport and a stack of cash, was a small, encrypted flash drive.

It contained the full, unedited recording of the Mayland comms channel from the moment the shooting started-the thirty seconds that would burn Jared's world to the ground.

Thirty seconds of him breaking protocol, ignoring a direct order from Don Rocco Walsh himself, the man overseeing the entire operation.

Jared's burner phone rang twice.

I let it go to voicemail.

The third time, I answered.

"Where are you?" he demanded, his voice tight with irritation, not concern.

"I've left the estate, Jared."

A heavy sigh.

"Kathy, don't be hysterical," he said.

"Whatever you think you're upset about-"

"I'm not hysterical," I cut him off, my voice as sharp and cold as glass.

"I'm seeking an annulment from the Commission."

Silence.

Then, a low, dangerous laugh.

"You're what?" he scoffed.

"You think you can just walk away?

You're my wife."

"Was I your wife at Mayland, Jared?" I asked, the question hanging in the air between us, heavy and lethal.

"Did you think of your wife for even a second while you were running to save your weak little woman?"

I didn't wait for an answer.

I ended the call and walked out of the house that had been my prison for three years, leaving the lie of his heroism to burn behind me.