Rising From His Broken Mafia Vows

Sienna's Perspective Morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the floor. I sat rigidly on the edge of the mattress, listening as the heavy front door opened. Dante was finally home. He'd spent the entire night tending to his mistress, getting her stabilized. I left the bedroom and stood silently at the top of the glass staircase. Dante froze in the middle of the foyer as two maids from our estate carried heavy cardboard boxes towards the service elevator. He blocked their path, tearing open the top of one box. He pulled out a silk dress he'd personally commissioned for me in Milan. A flicker of genuine panic flashed in his dark eyes. He dropped the dress and charged up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He cornered me against the glass railing, his massive body trapping me. "Why are you throwing away my gifts?" I lied. "Because you abandoned me last night. Am I not allowed to be angry?" Instantly, his tension seemed to dissolve. He let out a shuddering breath, pulled me tightly into his arms, and turned us so his back was to the railing, wrapping me securely from behind. He buried his face in my neck, his stubble scraping my skin. "I swear, I'm all yours today, okay?" I kept my voice calm, telling him he had to immediately make up for our missed dinner. I led him to the kitchen island and poured him a large glass of the smuggled Russian vodka left from the night before. I watched him down it in one go. I needed the potent alcohol to dull the edges honed by years in the mob world. An hour before dawn, I'd received an unremarkable快递包裹. The return address was completely blank, but I knew exactly who sent it. I left the small box unopened on the dining table. Dante finished the vodka, slammed the empty glass down, and reached for me again. Before his fingers could touch my skin, frantic knocking came at the front door. One of Dante's most loyal soldiers called urgently from behind the door. "Boss, Lucia's bleeding again and screaming for you." In an instant, the blood drained from Dante's face. His breathing turned shallow and rapid. I seized the moment, walking to the marble console table and picking up the thick stack of prepared documents. I placed the dummy money laundering contracts on top, hiding the severance agreement and divorce papers at the very bottom. Feigning indifference, I told him he needed to sign these routine papers before he left. Eager to get to his bleeding mistress, he blindly grabbed the gold pen. He scrawled his name on every dotted line in a rush, not reading a single word. The pen clattered to the floor. He rushed out the door. In mere seconds, I had severed all ties with the Falcone family. "Time to say goodbye, Dante," I murmured. At the same moment, the phone in his pocket started ringing incessantly. He didn't even look back. He just shouted over his shoulder that he'd be back soon and slammed the door. In the ensuing silence, I let out a soft, hollow laugh. I was laughing at my pathetic marriage. I slowly walked to the dining table and finally tore open the package from Lucia. Inside were dozens of photographs. They graphically depicted Dante and Lucia having sex in every corner of this penthouse. Her bent over the kitchen island. Bent over his desk in his study. Tangled together in our own wedding bed. A cruel handwritten note was pinned to the top photo. In flowing cursive, it asked, "Does he think of you when he touches me?" A sickening realization washed over me as I recalled times Dante would stare blankly at the furniture during our quiet dinners. He wasn't brooding over syndicate business; he was reliving his disgusting trysts right in front of me. I grabbed a heavy candlestick and swung it at our giant gilded wedding portrait. The impact produced a dull, explosive crack. The glass shattered. Just like our marriage. Never see you again, Dante.