The Mafia King Kneels For His Ex-Wife

Elena Rossi POV

My parents all but shoved me aside in their haste to approach the Don.

My father bowed his head, offering cloying congratulations to Serena, while my mother reached out to stroke the mistress's arm, her words a fawning tribute to the other woman's beauty.

They were like stray dogs, groveling for a scrap from the master's table.

Salvatore did not so much as honor them with a glance.

He dismissed my parents with a cold, negligent wave of his hand, as though they were dirt tracked across his expensive rugs.

From the corner, Mrs. Bianco let out a short, mocking laugh at the pathetic display.

Having witnessed enough of my family's humiliation, she turned on her heel and swept from the room.

Seizing the opportunity, Serena let out a soft, breathy sigh, a perfect imitation of exhaustion.

Leaning close, she whispered to Salvatore that the noise was giving her a headache and that she wished only to go home.

Salvatore immediately wrapped a thick arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest in a display of fierce, dominant possession.

Over her shoulder, his dark eyes found mine.

His voice cracked like a whip as he reprimanded me for my 'tantrum,' accusing me of ruining what was meant to be a peaceful evening.

Invoking his absolute authority as the Don, he issued a chilling command: I was to surrender my chair to the woman carrying the precious Vitiello blood.

The fawning expression on my mother's face did not so much fade as it did curdle, the muscles around her eyes tightening into a mask of undisguised contempt.

"You are an absolute embarrassment to the Rossi name," my mother hissed, her face contorted with venom.

I stood frozen, rooted to the spot as I stared at the man I had worshipped through years of silent agony.

Leo, ever the opportunist, noted my hesitation.

Desperate to prove his ruthless loyalty to the Don, he stepped up behind me and drove the toe of his shoe into the back of my knees.

My legs gave way beneath me.

I crashed hard onto the floor, my palms landing squarely in the pile of shattered crystal.

Sharp, jagged edges sliced deep into my flesh.

Warm blood welled up, pooling in a stark and vivid pattern against the cold, white marble.

No one gasped.

Not a single soul moved to help me.

Instead, Salvatore gently guided Serena into my rightful seat at the head of the table.

My parents eagerly resumed their fawning over the mistress, cooing and asking if the baby had kicked yet.

A sharp, electric pain pulsed in my hands.

The crimson stains spreading across the floor painted a vivid, sickening picture of my exact worth in this room.

Swallowing the bile that rose in my throat, I stubbornly pushed myself up.

With trembling fingers, I silently picked the larger, glittering shards of glass out of my bleeding palms.

I turned to a nearby Syndicate Associate and calmly asked him to bring me another chair.

"Stay precisely where you are." Salvatore's voice cut through the room, freezing the Associate in his tracks.

He looked down at me, his handsome face a mask of pure, unadulterated malice.

"If you are so capable of surviving on your own," he sneered, "you can stand for the remainder of the night."

So, I stood silently by the table.

A dull, leaden weight settled beneath my ribs, not a sharp agony, but the heavy pressure of a sponge soaked in ice water, making each breath a conscious effort.

I watched Salvatore tenderly pour a glass of water for Serena, reflecting on the endless, exhausting psychological warfare he had waged against me.

He kept me chained to his last name for no other reason than to torture me.

While my parents continued to worship the mistress, Leo eagerly leaned over the table.

He seamlessly pitched a billion-dollar money-laundering racket to the Don, the men completely ignoring the steady drip of blood falling from my fingertips onto the pristine floor.

Then, Serena whined again.

Pouting, she pointed at the massive seafood tower in the center of the table and complained that the shrimp looked too difficult to peel.

Salvatore didn't hesitate.

He pointed a commanding finger directly at me.

"Peel the shrimp," he ordered, his tone laced with disgust. "Since you are a barren, useless woman, it is time you finally made yourself useful."

I stared at the towering pile of iced seafood.

In that moment, a rush of memories assailed me: the time Salvatore had kicked me down a flight of stairs simply because Serena claimed I had insulted her.

The delirious fever that had almost killed me when he locked me in the freezing bathroom for days.

Looking at him now, I finally understood.

In his deeply paranoid, twisted mind, I was the ultimate villain of this story.

He truly believed I was a manipulative schemer who had forced his hand with that drugged alliance so many years ago.

He hated me with every fiber of his being.

Defeated, I walked slowly toward the seafood tower, leaving a quiet, damning trail of red drops behind me. But as I reached for the first shrimp, a single thought crystallized in my mind: he had broken my body, but he would not break my will. Not tonight. Not ever again.