The Discarded Wife Is A Mafia Queen

Isabella POV

The morning sun offered no warmth as I stepped into the Moretti Tower. Mr. Henderson’s office on the upper floor smelled of old parchment and the heavy, suffocating scent of expensive cigars. A brass seal bearing the Moretti family crest sat perfectly aligned on his mahogany desk.

I slid the termination papers across the polished wood.

"Sign it," I demanded.

The elderly advisor adjusted his spectacles, looking at me with a mixture of pity and condescension. "Mrs. Moretti, you know I cannot dissolve your consultant contract without the *Underboss*'s signature. There are family procedures—"

I didn't let him finish. My silk-gloved finger tapped a slow, rhythmic beat against the desk. "That contract was drafted solely to wash the family's bootlegging money through legitimate fronts. You have five minutes, Henderson. If this isn't stamped, an anonymous ledger detailing every discrepancy will land on Agent Thorne's desk at the Federal Prohibition Bureau."

Henderson’s face drained of color. Threatening to break *Omertà* was a death sentence, but the immediate terror of the Feds trumped his loyalty to Dante. With trembling hands, he brought the brass seal down on the paper. The legal shackle binding me as a mere accessory to the Moretti empire was severed.

I took my copy and walked out.

In the cavernous, black-and-white marble hallway, I ran into Luca. Dante’s most trusted right-hand man stopped, giving me a customary nod. "Mrs. Moretti."

I halted. The crystal chandeliers above cast cold, fractured light over us. "The name is Falcone," I corrected him, my voice echoing with an icy authority I hadn't used in years. *"Donna Falcone."*

I shoved the freshly stamped termination file into his rigid hands. "Give this to your *Underboss*. Tell him I no longer work for him. He better find a real advisor, because his empire... is going to need a lot of advice very soon."

Luca stared at me, paralyzed by the sheer, unfamiliar lethality radiating from my posture. He realized instantly this wasn't a lover's spat; it was a declaration of war.

I left the building and stepped out onto the bustling pavement of Fifth Avenue. The roar of an engine cut through the city noise as a flashy red Bugatti Type 35 pulled up to the curb. It looked like a fresh drop of blood against the sea of black armored sedans.

Adriana rolled down the window, looking down at me with a victorious, mocking smirk. "What, sister? Tired of playing your little runaway game? Coming back to beg Dante for forgiveness?"

I didn't yell. I didn't show a fraction of the rage boiling in my veins. Instead, I stepped off the curb and leaned down until my face was inches from hers. The stench of her cheap floral perfume hit the back of my throat.

*"Sono qui per portare fuori la spazzatura"* (I'm here to take out the trash), I whispered, my tone dead and hollow.

Adriana’s smug smile shattered. The color vanished from her cheeks as genuine unease flickered in her eyes. I didn't give her another glance. I turned my back on her and descended into the steaming abyss of the subway entrance.

The subway car rattled violently through the dark tunnels. I stared blankly at the flashing lights outside the window when my phone rang. It was Mrs. Gable, Elena’s teacher.

"Mrs. Moretti, Elena is having a severe meltdown in class. She keeps crying for you..."

An invisible hand crushed my lungs. My maternal instinct screamed at me to get off at the next stop and run to my daughter. But I forced my spine to stiffen. If I caved now, I would lose her to their toxic world forever.

"From now on, I am no longer Elena's emergency contact," I said, my voice a robotic, clinical monotone. "Direct all matters concerning her to her father, Dante Moretti, or his... associate, Adriana Rizzo."

I hung up before she could respond, tears finally burning the corners of my eyes. It was a brutal sacrifice, but it would force Dante and Adriana to choke on the responsibilities they had stolen from me.

By the time I returned to the cold, utilitarian gloom of my safe house in the Port District, my tears had dried. I sat before my telegraph machine, perfectly predicting the scene playing out in the penthouse. Luca would hand Dante the paper. Dante, blinded by his own arrogance, would barely read it before crumpling it up. He would call it a childish power play. *She won't last a week without my money,* he would sneer.

His absolute ignorance was my greatest weapon. He thought he was dealing with a broken wife, completely unaware that *Spettro* was already tightening the noose around his neck.

But to execute the next phase of my *Vendetta*, my current setup wasn't enough. I needed to build an untraceable node. Tomorrow morning, I would need to pay a visit to a certain dusty shop in Little Italy.