The Don's Wife Is His Executioner

Aria POV

The air in the estate seemed to congeal, heavy and cold.

Dante lunged at me, closing the distance in two massive strides.

His large hands clamped down on my shoulders with a force that drove the breath from my lungs, shoving me backward.

My spine slammed hard against the mahogany display cabinet, sending a sharp rattle through the glass behind my head.

“Aria, are you insane?!” he snarled.

He had lost his legendary control. The polished Don vanished, replaced by the feral street enforcer I had known a decade ago.

I did not blink. I tilted my head and stared directly into his furious, dark eyes.

“Do you remember your last words to me before they locked you behind bars?” I asked, my tone flat.

His grip loosened by a fraction.

I seized the shift, reached up and grabbed the lapels of his expensive suit, pulling him down until his face was inches from mine.

“You said, ‘Aria, you are free,’” I whispered, my voice a thin, sharp edge in the space between us.

“But you walked out of that prison and handed another woman her freedom. You used my loyalty to lock me inside a cage.”

Dante released me abruptly and stepped back, pulling out his silver cigarette case.

He placed a cigarette between his lips but did not reach for his lighter.

“I never planned to keep that bastard anyway,” he said, his voice returning to a chilling calm.

He finally struck a match, lit the cigarette, and inhaled deeply.

Through a veil of thick gray smoke, he issued a direct order—not as a husband, but from a Don to his subordinate.

“Do not touch her again. This ends here.”

He turned toward the stairs.

“Your Underboss, Matteo, publicly called Sofia the Donna in front of hundreds of Made Men at the annual banquet last week,” I said, my words striking his back like thrown stones.

Dante froze with his foot on the bottom step.

“He insulted the honor of the true Mafia Queen,” I added softly.

Dante remained perfectly still for five agonizing seconds.

“I will handle it,” he finally said, walking up the stairs without looking back.

After he had gone, I looked down at my bare shoulders. Faint red bruises in the shape of his thick fingers were already blooming on my pale skin.

Rosa, my longtime housekeeper, hurried into the ruined living room. Her hands trembled as she held out a glass of water and my anxiety medication.

I pushed her hand away gently, pulling out my encrypted phone and dialing a secure line.

Luca picked up on the first ring. He was my most loyal intelligence operative—a man who answered only to me.

“I need you to run a deep background check on a woman named Sofia,” I ordered, my tone devoid of emotion.

“I want every piece of dirt you can find.”