The Mafia King's Unwanted Wife Shines

Elena POV

For two days, I lay on my stomach, existing in a haze of agony.

I cleaned the wounds myself, bypassing the first aid kit for the vodka from the mini-bar and a fresh towel.

The sting was blinding, a white-hot fire that seared through my nerves, but it kept me awake.

It kept me angry.

I refused the food the maids brought, leaving the trays to go cold outside the door.

I refused to speak to anyone.

On the third day, I stood up.

My back was stiff, a canvas of scabs and blooming bruises that pulled tight with every breath.

I put on a loose silk robe, the fabric cool against my feverish skin.

I walked into the main bedroom.

Dante wasn't there.

I opened the walk-in closet.

With a calm, terrifying precision, I took every bag, every shoe, every piece of jewelry he had ever bought me.

I dragged them to the balcony.

I threw them over the railing.

They landed on the pristine lawn three stories below—a deluge of Louis Vuitton, Chanel, and diamonds.

The gardeners stopped their mowers, shielding their eyes as they stared at the fortune raining from the sky.

I went back inside.

Today was my twenty-fourth birthday.

In my past life, I had spent this day waiting for Dante to come home, only for him to send a text at midnight saying he was busy.

Not this time.

I called my friend, Clara. She was a civilian, a gallery owner who knew nothing about the Family business or the violence that fueled it.

"Clara," I said. "I want to go out. The Sapphire Club."

"Elena? Oh my god, happy birthday! Are you sure? Dante usually..."

"Dante isn't invited," I cut in, my voice distinct.

I put on a backless dress.

It was risky. It was a declaration of war.

The welts were still visible, angry crimson ridges crisscrossing my pale skin like a grotesque map.

But I wanted them to be seen.

I wanted the world to see his artwork.

The Sapphire Club was loud, dark, and expensive.

We got a VIP booth.

I drank champagne. I danced.

For the first time in years, I felt like a person, buoyed by the bass and the alcohol.

"You look amazing," Clara shouted over the music. "But your back... what happened?"

"I fell," I lied, the excuse slipping out effortlessly. "Into a rosebush."

Around midnight, the atmosphere in the club shifted.

The music didn't stop, but the air got heavier, charged with a sudden, electric tension.

People parted like the Red Sea.

Dante walked in.

He was flanked by Enzo and three other soldiers, moving with the lethal grace of predators.

And Sofia.

Of course.

She was clinging to his arm, wearing a white dress that made her look like a virgin saint.

Dante scanned the room.

His eyes locked on me.

He saw the backless dress.

He saw the marks.

His jaw tightened.

He marched toward our booth, darkness trailing in his wake.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, looming over the table.

"Celebrating," I said, sipping my drink with feigned nonchalance. "It's my birthday. Or did you forget?"

"You should be at home," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You're making a scene."

"I'm just dancing, Dante. You're the one bringing an army."

Sofia stepped forward.

"Happy Birthday, Elena," she said sweetly, her voice dripping with faux concern. "We didn't know you were coming. We just wanted a nightcap."

"Go away, Sofia," I said.

"Don't talk to her like that," Dante snapped.

"Why?" I stood up. I was wearing heels, so I was almost eye-level with him.

"Because she's your favorite pet? Because she's the one you want in your bed?"

"You're drunk," Dante said. He reached for my arm.

"Don't touch me!" I yelled.

The music seemed to stop.

Everyone was watching.

"You whipped me," I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "You beat your wife like a dog because of her lies. And now you parade her around on my birthday?"

"Elena, enough," Dante warned. His hand was twitching toward his gun, a reflex.

"It's not enough!" I screamed. "I hate you, Dante. I hate you for everything you've done."

I grabbed a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket.

I didn't aim at him.

I aimed at the floor between us, wanting to smash it, to make a noise as loud as my rage.

Sofia shrieked. "She's going to kill me!"

She threw herself at Dante.

Dante reacted on instinct.

He shoved me.

He meant to push me back, to create distance.

But he used his full strength.

I flew backward.

I crashed into the tower of champagne glasses behind me.

The sound was deafening—a symphony of destruction.

Glass shattered.

Hundreds of shards.

I hit the floor hard.

Pain exploded in my arm, my side, my legs.

I lay there in a puddle of expensive alcohol and broken crystal.

Warm blood started to pool around me, mixing with the champagne in a swirl of pink and crimson.

"Elena!" Clara screamed.

Dante stood frozen, his hand still outstretched.

He looked at me.

He looked at the blood spreading on the floor.

Then Sofia moaned. "Dante... I think I twisted my ankle."

Dante looked at me.

Then he looked at Sofia.

He hesitated.

For one second, he hesitated.

And then he turned to Sofia.

"Are you okay?" he asked, helping her sit down on the plush velvet seat.

That was the moment.

That was the final nail in the coffin.

I lay in the glass, bleeding, watching my husband check his mistress for a twisted ankle while I had shards of glass embedded in my skin.

I started to laugh.

It was a wet, gurgling sound.

Enzo rushed over to me. He took off his jacket and pressed it against the deep cut on my arm.

"Call an ambulance!" Enzo shouted at the staff, his voice cracking with urgency.

Dante's head snapped back to me.

He saw the amount of blood.

Panic flashed in his eyes.

He took a step toward me.

"Elena..."

"Don't," I whispered.

I looked at him through the haze of pain.

"Don't you dare come near me."