The Discarded Wife Is A Mafia Queen

Isabella POV The severed telephone cord dangled from the console like a dead vein. I left it there and walked back into Dante’s study. The masculine scent of dark oak paneling, cigars, and aged whiskey clung to the air—the scent of my prison. I stared at my left hand. The heavy diamond ring felt like a shackle cutting into my bone. I slid it off. Inside the platinum band, the engraving mocked me: *D&I Forever*. I placed the ring inside an empty black velvet box that once held a Patek Philippe he’d gifted me. Taking a sheet of Moretti embossed stationery, I uncapped his fountain pen and wrote a single word: *Dante*. I laid the note and the slashed blood oath parchment over the diamond, snapping the velvet lid shut. The final verdict of our marriage was sealed. At 2:15 AM, the electronic lock of the foyer emitted a cold beep. Dante stepped onto the black-and-white marble floor. He reeked of scotch and Adriana’s sickeningly sweet floral perfume. Seeing me waiting by the heavy mahogany console table, his jaw clenched in undisguised disgust. "Don't start, Isabella," he warned, his voice rough from alcohol and exhaustion. I didn't speak. I simply extended the velvet box toward him. He sneered, not even breaking his stride. "What is this? Jewelry to beg my forgiveness for interrupting my night?" He brushed past me, his broad shoulder deliberately grazing mine. "Remember your place, Isabella. Your future is to stay quiet and give me a son. Now, stay out of my way." I stood frozen as his heavy footsteps faded up the stairs. Slowly, I placed the box on the marble table. The last shred of my hesitation vanished into the dark. By 5:00 AM, I was in the sterile guest room. Two suitcases sat on the floor, holding only the clothes I had brought from the Falcone estate. From the false bottom of the lingerie drawer, I retrieved the heavy, coded token. My true power. In the kitchen, Marta was preparing the silver coffee percolator. She froze when she saw my coat and the bags. "When the *Don* wakes," I said, my voice ringing with the cold, absolute authority of a *Donna*, "you will hand him the box on the foyer table. Tell him I am gone." I walked out the door, leaving the golden cage behind. * Dante POV Two hours later, my skull throbbed with a vicious hangover. Isabella wasn't in our bed. Let her throw her little tantrum in the guest room; she’d come crawling back when her allowance ran dry. I walked downstairs. Marta stood in the foyer, trembling like a leaf, clutching a small black velvet box. Before she could open her mouth, the kitchen telephone shrilled. I snatched the receiver. "Dante!" Adriana sobbed hysterically into my ear. "The morning paper! They used a photo that makes me look like a cheap speakeasy singer! You have to handle that reporter!" "Calm down, I'll take care of it," I growled, my patience snapping. Marta stepped into my path, holding out the box with shaking hands. "*Signore*(Sir)..." "Get out of my way!" I shoved past her, my arm clipping her shoulder. The velvet box slipped from her terrified grip. It hit the edge of the massive Chesterfield sofa and tumbled silently into the deep, dark abyss between the leather armrest and the seat cushion. Marta gasped, dropping to her knees, reaching for the crevice. "Leave it!" I barked, adjusting my cuffs as I headed for the door. "I don't have time for her childish nonsense today. I'll deal with it later."