The Mafia Fool Buried Them

Clara POV

The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, casting a cold, sterile light across the room.

I sat in the same depression on the sofa, my spine held so erect that not an inch of it made contact with the cushions behind me.

I picked up my phone and sent a cold, encrypted text to Lorenzo, bluntly telling him that our betrothal was officially severed.

Twenty minutes later, the front door unlocked with a heavy click.

Lorenzo and Mia walked in together, their shoulders brushing in a way that made my stomach turn.

They were carrying bags of expensive pastries and fresh espresso, playfully bickering over who had fought the hardest to buy the cannolis at the bakery.

They were implicitly flaunting the fact that they had spent the entire night together, oblivious to the storm waiting for them.

A sudden chime interrupted their laughter. Lorenzo checked his encrypted phone to read my text, and the color instantly drained from his face.

Mia peeked at his screen, then looked up at me with a mocking smirk.

"Are you throwing a tantrum just because Lorenzo did not come home to sleep in your bed?" she asked, her voice dripping with fake innocence.

Pivoting instantly, she put on a cloying, victim's tone. "You didn't even ask if I was hurt from my terrible fall last night," she complained, "yet we still went out of our way to bring you breakfast."

I looked at the bags on the counter, thoroughly unimpressed.

"Those are your favorite cannolis, Mia, not mine," I pointed out, my gaze shifting to Lorenzo. "And you purchased them with the same black card used to commission my blood-diamond engagement ring."

My voice was dead and flat as I looked at the fresh, purple bruising blooming on both of their necks.

"I heard your soft chuckle over the phone right after you screamed," I told Mia, stripping away her delusions. "I know you faked the fall to lure him away."

Lorenzo dropped the coffee cups on the table, the dark liquid sloshing over the rims.

He scrambled toward me, his hands raised defensively, claiming Mia was concussed from the fall and he simply stood guard outside her door all night.

He placed his hand over his heart and swore on his honor as a Made Man that he had never touched her.

Unmoved, I repeated my words, telling him the betrothal was over and he needed to pack his things immediately.

Mia's gasp was a calibrated performance. The silk of her dress traced a deliberate, swooping arc as she sank, her hands finding the trouser seam of Lorenzo's suit with unerring precision, twisting the fine wool into a set of panicked, ugly wrinkles as she begged him to kneel beside her and apologize. But Lorenzo refused. To bend a knee, especially before me, was a concession his station would not permit. He tore his arm from her grasp and hauled her upright by the elbow, his grip rough on her skin.

He tenderly told her that she never had to kneel for anyone, then turned his dark, angry eyes on me.

"Why can't you act like a mature mafia woman?" he demanded, his tone turning vicious. "You should trust your future husband instead of acting like a paranoid bitch!"

The last fraying thread of my mercy snapped.

I stood up, towering over them in the center of my own home.

"I know the full extent of your treason," I told them, my voice dropping to a low register that carried more menace than a shout. "And if you do not leave my sight this instant, I will summon the Capos to adjudicate according to the old laws."

Mia rolled her eyes, dropping the victim act entirely, and grabbed Lorenzo's hand.

She dragged him toward the door, loudly telling him that I was just being dramatic and acting out some delusional mob-wife fantasy.

The door slammed behind them. I stood alone in the silence and let the mask fall—not into tears, but into something colder. Something sharper. The text I had sent Lorenzo that morning was not a genuine attempt to end things. It was bait. I needed them rattled, off-balance, too busy managing my supposed emotional breakdown to notice the trap closing around them. They had just given me exactly what I wanted: they had walked into my home, flaunted their betrayal, and confirmed every suspicion. Now all that remained was the banquet. And the screen. I turned toward my study to make the final preparations. Tonight, the entire syndicate would witness what I had witnessed. And there would be no coming back from it.