I Bought My Mafia Husband's Face

I spent five million dollars to have a disfigured male model surgically transformed into the spitting image of my ex-husband, Dante Moretti. I made him as my toyboy.

I thought Dante wouldn't care.

After all, in our seven years of marriage, I had once collapsed from sheer exhaustion and was hospitalized. He was in Seattle at the time, finalizing an arms deal.

On the day my mother passed away, he was at a victory banquet, basking in the praise of other Dons.

When a rival family’s attack landed me in the ICU, with doctors warning I might not make it, he merely had his underboss deliver a black card with a message: anything short of death was acceptable.

As the formidable Don of the New York Mafia, he was notoriously cold and ruthless.

Just as I was convincing myself to be a good, understanding wife, a piece of news sent shockwaves through the entire underworld.

The power-obsessed Dante, who saw women as disposable, had skipped an important family meeting to go on a vacation to Monaco with a club waitress named Isabella Rossi.

So I ran away. I left his world for good.

Just as I was losing myself in the counterfeit comfort of Dante's stand-in, the door to my apartment was kicked off its hinges.

Dante emerged from the shadows, a menacing silhouette in a bespoke suit, and strode toward me.

With bloodshot eyes, he yanked me out of the other man's arms.

"Elara, do you have a death wish?"

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1

"Is this your new toy?"

Dante glared at the face identical to his own. To the man, he hissed, "This face belongs to Isabella. Not for you to wear."

Then he drew a stiletto and carved several deep, bone-exposing gashes into the terrified man's face.

"You've really outdone yourself, Elara," he sneered at me.

"She's a brilliant surgeon, Dante," Isabella whispered behind him. "The best in New York. Her hands… that's her gift."

Dante turned to look at me, a viciousness I had never seen before flashing in his eyes.

"What do you think you're doing…"

Before I could finish, I felt a sharp, agonizing pain.

He drove the blade right through my palm.

"This should ensure you won't pull a stunt like this again," he said coldly.

Without a backward glance, he left with his arm around Isabella.

I looked down at the blood streaming down my wrist.

This was my hand. My pride. My everything.

Now, it had been ruined by Dante's own.

Stumbling through the ER doors, I murmured weakly, "Debridement, hemostasis, bandaging."

I was intimately familiar with every step, but I never imagined I would one day experience it myself.

As I walked out of the examination room, my blood ran cold. I saw Dante carefully helping Isabella out of the OB/GYN department.

Seven years ago, on our wedding night, I had asked him, "Dante, when are we going to have a child?"

Without looking up from his documents, he had said, "I don't like children."

It turned out he didn't dislike children; he just disliked the idea of having them with me.

Seeing my gaze fall upon her, Isabella weakly tugged on Dante's sleeve, tears welling in her eyes.

"Dante… Elara frightened me. My stomach is cramping."

"Elara."

He looked at me, his eyes icy. "Kneel and apologize to Isabella."

I was stunned.

"Didn't you hear me?"

His voice grew even colder. "Kneel and apologize for what you've done."

His roar echoed through the hospital lobby, drawing countless onlookers.

As their gazes—a mix of pity and curiosity—fell upon me, a wave of exhaustion washed over me.

Fine, I'll kneel.

I slowly knelt, my injured hand hanging at my side, the gauze bandage already seeping with blood.

"I'm sorry," I said mechanically.

Isabella came over, feigning concern. "Oh, Elara, you shouldn't be kneeling," she cooed, pretending to help me up while secretly grinding the needle-sharp point of her stiletto heel into my wounded palm.

"Oh, Elara, you mustn't. Get up, quickly now."

"Enough!"

I shoved her away, protecting my hand.

Isabella stumbled backward and collapsed, a dark stain of blood spreading rapidly from beneath her skirt.

"Isabella!"