Not Your Mafia Fairy Tale

My ex-husband Giacomo and my brother's widow, Zoya, are the reason I went to prison.

Seven years. Gone.

I crunched leaves on the way to Carlo's grave and—of course—they're there. Together. Right in front of his headstone.

"Jessica?" His voice shook. Fake surprise.

He wiped his eye like that meant something. "I've been looking for you for seven years. I thought you... were gone.

"Where have you been all these years? Why didn't you ever contact me?"

I said nothing.

He kept going. "You're still mad about what happened? I had my reasons."

'Reasons?'

I looked at him. Almost laughed.

He and Carlo's woman killed Carlo. Framed me, kicked me out, and sent me to prison.

He took half my life. And now he's talking about reasons—standing at Carlo's grave.

But seven years of torment burned everything down.

Love. Hate. All of it.

My fingers brushed Carlo's headstone. Ice-cold.

I fixed the white chrysanthemums.

Then Zoya's heel slammed down in front of the grave.

Mud splashed the petals. Ugly. On purpose.

"Well, well. Still alive after all these years?"

She latched onto Giacomo's arm, smiling sharp enough to cut.

'Carlo. This is the woman you died protecting.'

I smirked. "Of course I came back. Had to see how you two vultures are picking over my brother."

The word hit.

Hard.

"Jessica," Giacomo snapped. "We had no choice back then. It's been years. Let it go."

"No choice?"

I stared him down, fingers digging into the stone, scraping it raw.

Moldy bread. Electric shocks. The stink of the cell.

It all rushed back and crushed my chest.

"Don't bother with her," Zoya sneered. "She's a stray fresh out of prison. Carlo's dead. The Rossi Family's ours now—"

Her eyes dropped to my neck. "—including that sad little cross."

She shoved Giacomo aside and stepped closer. Her heel crushed the petals into the dirt.

I touched the cross. Carlo's gift. Eighteen years old.

Something snapped.

"Touch it and I'll kill you," I said. "Carlo saved you. Married you. Gave you everything. And this is how you pay him back? "

I leaned in. "He must've been blind."

Zoya flushed. Then drained. Her chin still up. "He chose that. No one forced him. He was stupid. Played saint. He died. That's on him."

"What did you say?"

I lunged. Ready to tear her apart.

Giacomo cut in front of her. Stone-faced. "Enough. Zoya's right. Carlo's death was an accident. Let it go. It's better for everyone."

"Accident?" I laughed. Cracked. "A knife in his chest. Your fingerprints on the handle. That an accident too?"

It was a bluff. Enzo was still digging. Nothing locked in.

But Giacomo flinched. His pupils shrank.

He stepped back and grabbed Zoya's hand.

She freaked—then doubled down. "Balle! Carlo died in a shootout! Giacomo had nothing to do with it! Say one more word and I'll have you killed!"

She spun toward the black sedan. "Throw this lunatic in the ocean!"

Two soldati rushed me. Their hands on guns. Eyes cold.

Giacomo didn't move. Didn't speak. Just turned away.

Whatever guilt he had? Gone. Buried under power.

Then—

"Stop."

Cold. Sharp.

The soldati froze.

A man stepped out from behind the camphor tree. Black suit. Sunglasses. Two more flanking him.

The air dropped.

"She's to be the Don's wife of the Corleone Family," he said. "You really want to touch her?"

"Corleone Family?"

Zoya drained white. All that swagger—gone. She grabbed Giacomo like she was falling.

"Y-You're with Enzo Corleone?"

He didn't answer her. Just looked at me. Small nod.

"Ms. Rossi. The Don sent us. Are you alright?"

I nodded.

Then I looked at Giacomo—gray, stiff—and Zoya, still coming apart.

For the first time, my hate had weight.

'Carlo. Look. Someone's standing with me now. I'm done being stepped on.'

Giacomo swallowed. Smoothed his voice. "This is a misunderstanding. We just wanted to talk."

"Talk?"

The man laughed. Cold. Took one step forward.

The soldati backed off.

"Before or after you tried to dump her in the ocean? You don't touch anyone under Corleone protection."

Zoya tried to speak. Giacomo yanked her back hard. He shot me a wary look.

"We're leaving," he muttered.

They bolted from the cemetery. Zoya stumbled, heels slipping, barely upright.

The man handed me a tissue.

"Ms. Rossi," he said low, "do you want us to handle them?"

"No."

I knelt. Gathered the crushed petals. Pressed them back into the dirt.

"Not yet."

The wind moved through the trees. Brushed my hand.

Like Carlo.

I leaned in close to the stone. "Wait a little longer. I'll dig it all up. I'll get you justice."

The man stayed near. Respectful. Quiet. "The Don says whatever you need, the Corleone Family stands with you."

I stood and closed my fist around the cross at my chest.

I'd never felt this steady.

'Giacomo, Zoya, what you took from the Rossi Family—I'm taking back.'

'With interest.'