My Mafia Husband's Deadly Secret
For years, I was the perfect, quiet wife to Dante Moretti, the most feared Mafia Don in New York. I mistook his lavish gifts for affection and his cold protection for care.
The ninety-ninth time I asked for a divorce, he laughed. An hour later, his mistress, Isabella, called him.
"Get out," he ordered, leaving me on a dark street corner in the pouring rain so he could rush to her side.
As I watched his armored car vanish, I finally understood the truth. Our marriage was a transaction, a pact made to settle my father's debts. I was just a placeholder, a substitute living a life designed for Isabella. Every gift, every gesture, was an echo of her tastes.
He never saw me. To him, I wasn't his wife; I was a possession. An obligation he could discard at will. He thought I was too weak, too dependent to ever fight back. He believed I couldn't survive without him.
He thought I would just run and hide. He was wrong.
You don't escape a man like Dante Moretti. He would hunt you to the ends of the earth, not out of love, but out of pride. To break a pact with a Don, you can't just run. You have to be prepared for war. And standing there, drenched and abandoned, I made a new vow: I wouldn't just leave him. I would burn his entire world to ash.
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Chapter 4
Marco POV:
Later that day, Marco called. His voice came through the line tight, laced with a cold fury.
"I heard what happened. Are you okay?"
"It's just a burn," I said, my eyes fixed on my bandaged hand.
"It wasn't an accident, Sia," he said, his voice dropping. "And her 'sabbatical' in Europe? It wasn't a medical retreat. I had some people look into it. She was partying in Monaco, sleeping with a French arms dealer. She's been playing Dante this whole time, yanking his leash whenever it suits her."
The information didn't surprise me. It only hammered the truth into place. Isabella was a venomous snake, and Dante was a fool-so blinded by obsession he couldn't see the fangs until they were at his throat.
Alessia POV:
When I saw Isabella again at the tower, she cornered me by the elevators.
"I hope your hand heals," she said, her voice coated in a sympathy so false it was practically an insult. "It would be a shame if you couldn't pursue your little hobby." She leaned closer, her whisper a poisoned dart. "The coffee was a message. You're a placeholder. A seat-warmer. Don't ever forget it."
I just looked at her, my face a carefully constructed mask of indifference. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
That evening, Dante came home late. He walked into the bedroom and tossed a small, velvet box onto the bed. It landed with a soft thud.
"What's this?" I asked.
"A reward," he said, not looking at me as he unbuttoned his shirt. "For your good behavior today. For being obedient."
I opened the box. Inside, a diamond necklace glittered under the lights, a river of cold, perfect fire. It was worth a fortune. It was breathtakingly beautiful.
And it was utterly meaningless.
I saw it for what it was: not a gift, but a payment. A transaction. Payment for my humiliation, for my pain, for my submission-the final insult before I collected what was truly owed to me.
I closed the lid.
"Thank you, Dante," I said, my voice perfectly even. "It's lovely."
He grunted in response, already forgetting it, already forgetting me.
I placed the box on my nightstand. Its cold, hard weight on the polished wood was a tangible echo of the one settling deep in my chest. He thought he could buy my silence, my compliance.
He had no idea how high a price he was about to pay.