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.
Chapters
Share
Chapter 7
Dante POV:
I returned to the fortress just after two in the morning, the scent of Isabella's perfume still clinging to my suit jacket. The house was silent. Too silent.
Usually, there was a light on in the library, or the soft sound of the television from the living room. Alessia was always up, waiting.
Tonight, there was only darkness.
An unfamiliar irritation prickled at me. I strode through the empty rooms, the echo of my own footsteps the only sound. Her absence was a tangible thing, a tear in the fabric of my world.
I found her room empty, the bed untouched.
She disobeyed me.
I assumed this was some childish tantrum. A dramatic response to the incident at the summit, or because I'd left her on the street corner. She was probably holed up in one of the guest rooms, sulking, waiting for me to come find her. Waiting for an apology.
She would be waiting a very long time.
My jaw tightened as I loosened my tie. I'd always believed she was too weak, too utterly dependent on me to ever actually leave. Where would she go? What would she do? She was a painter, not a survivor. She needed me.
I pulled out my phone and sent her a curt message.
Stop playing games. Come to bed.
I expected a reply. An argument. Something.
I got nothing.
An hour passed. Still nothing. The irritation began to curdle into something else, something unsettling that I refused to name. I stalked back to her room, then to the library, the art studio. Every space was empty. It was as if she had simply vanished into thin air.
She was playing games to get my attention. That had to be it. She was jealous of Isabella, and this was her pathetic attempt to make me feel guilty.
I was the Don. No one left me. They didn't dare.
I poured myself a whiskey, the heavy silence of the house pressing in on me. I'd handle this in the morning. She'd come crawling back, full of apologies, and I would be magnanimous. And then I would forgive her.
Of course she would. I was sure of it.
Keep Reading
The story is getting intense! Switch to App to
Unlock All Chapters