My Mafia Husband's Deadly Secret

Alessia POV:

The call from the hospital landed the next day like a punch to the gut. My father's condition was deteriorating. They needed authorization for a new, expensive treatment immediately. The bill for his life had come due, and it needed to be paid now.

My blood ran cold. I called Dante.

"I can't talk right now, Alessia," he snapped. I could hear Isabella's laugh in the background. They were in a meeting, finalizing the alliance between the Moretti and De Luca families.

"Dante, it's my father. The hospital needs payment or they can't-"

"Handle it," he said, his voice clipped and laced with impatience. "You have an allowance. Use it."

He hung up.

My allowance wouldn't cover a fraction of the cost. My hands trembled as I dialed Marco. He answered on the first ring.

I explained the situation, my voice cracking.

"I'm wiring it now," he said, his tone immediate and absolute. "Don't worry about it, Sia. Just be with him."

Relief washed over me, so potent it nearly buckled my knees. It was followed by a wave of cold fury at my husband.

That night was the underworld summit, a tense gathering of New York's Five Families at a neutral hotel. I was supposed to attend as Dante's wife, a silent, beautiful accessory. I looked at the demure navy dress he'd had laid out for me-unquestionably Isabella's taste-and shoved it to the back of the closet.

Instead, I chose a dress of my own. A floor-length gown of blood-red silk that clung to every curve. It wasn't a dress for a quiet Mafia wife. It was a declaration.

I arrived alone.

The moment I walked into the grand ballroom, a hush fell over the crowd. All eyes were on me. Then, Dante made his entrance.

Isabella was on his arm.

He saw me across the room, and his eyes narrowed into slits of pure fury. He was enraged by my audacity, by the dress, by my solitary presence. It was a direct challenge to his control.

Minutes later, he walked over to Don Gallo, the head of the city's oldest Famiglia, with Isabella still clinging to his arm.

"Don Gallo," Dante said, his voice carrying in the suddenly silent room. "I'd like you to meet my companion for the evening, Isabella De Luca."

He had erased me. In front of the entire underworld, he had stripped me of my title, my status, my very existence as his wife. The humiliation was a physical blow, sucking the air from my lungs.

Later, clearly intending to quell the whispers his actions had started, Dante cornered me near the terrace, his hand gripping my arm, his fingers digging into the bone. He feigned a moment of affection, a husband placating his wife for the public eye.

"What game are you playing, Alessia?" he hissed, his smile a grotesque mask that never reached his eyes.

I just looked at him, my own expression a placid sea over a raging storm. "No game, Dante."

From across the room, I saw Isabella watching us. Her face, for a split second, twisted into a mask of pure, venomous fury. She saw his hand on my arm, his attention on me-however brief, however brutal-and she couldn't bear it.

She turned, walked away, and pulled out her phone. I couldn't hear her words, but I saw the cold, calculated malice in her expression as her thumb moved across the screen.

A certainty, sharp and cold as a shard of ice, pierced through me. She wasn't just jealous. She was retaliating. And I knew, with a sudden, gut-wrenching terror, exactly what-and who-her target would be.