The Discarded Wife's Revenge On The Don

The cellar reeked of damp earth and soured wine.

It was bitterly cold.

My silk blouse offered no protection against the icy chill that seeped from the rough stone walls.

I wasn't in a cell, exactly. I was in the open area where the wine barrels were stored, stacked high in the shadows, but the soldiers stood at the bottom of the stairs, blocking the only exit.

Brennan came down twenty minutes later.

He was alone.

He held a frame in his hand.

It was our wedding portrait. The one that had hung in the hallway for three years, a monument to a lie.

In the photo, I looked perfect. Pristine.

He looked triumphant.

"Debbi is in pain," he said, his voice echoing in the silence.

"Good," I shot back.

He didn't hit me.

That would have been too simple for a man like him.

He walked over to a heavy wooden table and slammed the picture frame down.

The glass shattered with a sharp crack.

"Come here," he ordered.

I didn't move.

He closed the distance between us in two long strides, grabbing my wrist.

His grip was like iron.

He dragged me to the table despite my resistance.

"You like to use your hands," he said, his tone dangerously low. "You like to hurt things."

He forced my hand down.

He pressed my palm into the broken glass of our wedding photo.

I bit my lip until it bled to keep from screaming.

The shards sliced into my skin with searing heat.

Blood pooled on the photograph, staining the white of my wedding dress a deep, violent red.

"This is what you did to our marriage," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "You broke it. Not me. You couldn't just be a wife. You had to be a problem."

He released my hand.

I pulled it back, cradling it against my chest as it throbbed in time with my heart.

Blood dripped onto the cold stone floor.

"You are a monster," I whispered.

"I am the Don," he corrected coldly. "And you are a disappointment."

He turned and walked away without looking back.

"Stay down here until you learn how to apologize," he called over his shoulder.

The soldiers followed him up, locking the heavy door behind them with a tone of finality.

I was alone in the dark.

I looked at my hand.

I looked at the ruined photo.

My blood covered his face in the picture, obliterating him.

I reached into my pocket with my good hand.

I still had the silver lighter he had given me on our first anniversary. It was engraved with the words My Flame.

I walked over to the corner where a stack of old files and boxes sat, forgotten in the gloom.

I found a box labeled "Letters."

They were his letters. The ones he wrote when he was trying to court my father's favor.

I dumped them onto the stone floor.

I flicked the lighter.

The flame was small, dancing in the drafty room like a dying hope.

I dropped it onto the paper.

The fire caught quickly.

I watched the words love and forever curl into blackened ash.

The door at the top of the stairs opened again.

Breann stood there, framed by the light from the hallway.

She threw a small first-aid kit down the stairs.

It landed with a hollow plastic clatter.

"Use it," she said. "We don't want you getting an infection and dying before the gala. You still have appearances to keep."

"Why do you hate me, Breann?" I asked, looking up at her silhouette. "I protected you."

"Protected me?" She laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "You lied to me. You told me Marco left town. You told me he didn't love me."

I froze.

"He was a rat, Breann," I said, my voice trembling. "He was selling us to the Feds. Brennan executed him. I told you he left so you wouldn't have to hate your brother for killing the man you loved."

"Liar!" she screamed. "Debbi told me the truth. She told me you ordered the hit because you didn't want a commoner in the family. Just like you don't want her."

"Debbi is playing you," I said, desperation creeping in.

"Debbi is my friend," Breann spat. "Rot in there, Alyssa."

She slammed the door.

I sat by the small fire of burning lies, opening the first aid kit with trembling fingers.

I pulled out the tweezers.

I had to pick the glass out of my own palm.