Trapped In A Mafia Marriage

Alessia POV: I woke up on the floor. The dining room was empty, the plates cleared, the lights dimmed. A single glass of water sat on the table beside my head. A concession. They hadn’t called a doctor, but they hadn’t let me die. Not yet. The game wasn’t over. I dragged myself upstairs, my body screaming in protest. Dante was in his study. I didn't bother knocking. He looked up from his papers, his face a mask of cold indifference. “Feeling better?” “What is this game, Dante?” I asked, my voice a raw whisper. “What do you want from me?” He feigned ignorance, a tactic as old as his bloodline. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “This… this constant testing. Hurting me to see if I’ll stay. What will it take for it to be enough? For you to believe I love you?” Before he could answer, Seraphina appeared at the door, wrapped in a silk robe. “Dante, darling, I can’t sleep. My finger is throbbing.” She pouted, holding up her hand, now adorned with a comically large bandage. Dante’s attention snapped to her, his feigned concern immediate and absolute. He rose, murmuring soothing words, and led her from the room without a backward glance at me. The message was clear. Her fake pain would always be more important than my real suffering. I was numb. There was no more anger, no more pain. Just a vast, empty landscape inside me where feelings used to live. Two weeks later, the house was transformed for Seraphina’s birthday. A lavish, obscene affair. Hundreds of guests filled the ballroom, their laughter echoing off the marble floors. They were Dante’s people—underbosses, capos, politicians on his payroll. This party was a statement of power, and Seraphina was the prop at its center. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?” A wife of some capo murmured to her friend, loud enough for me to hear. “The Don clearly adores her. I feel for Alessia. It must be humiliating.” I stood by the French doors, a ghost at my own husband’s party, and watched him shower Seraphina with gifts. A diamond bracelet. A sports car, the keys presented on a velvet cushion. Nico stood beside them, clapping enthusiastically, his eyes constantly flicking to me, checking for the desired reaction. Checking for the pain. I gave him nothing. My face was a placid mask. This infuriated them more than any outburst. My indifference was a rebellion they didn’t know how to crush. Finally, Seraphina, drunk on champagne and attention, glided over to me. Her eyes were sharp and malicious. “You haven’t given me a gift, Alessia,” she purred. “I have nothing for you,” I said, my voice level. Her eyes narrowed, then fixed on the simple gold chain around my neck. It was a locket, thin and worn. Inside was a tiny, faded photograph of my mother. It was the only thing I had left of her. “I want that,” she said, her voice turning childishly greedy. I instinctively clutched it. “No.” “Oh, come on,” she wheedled, turning to Dante, who had approached, sensing a new opportunity for his cruel sport. “Dante, tell her. It’s my birthday.” “Alessia,” Dante’s voice was soft, but it held the unyielding command of a Don. “Give it to her.” “Dante, please,” I begged, my voice cracking for the first time in weeks. “It was my mother’s. It’s all I have.” “It’s just a necklace, Mamma,” Nico piped up, joining the circle. “Don Dante can buy you a bigger one. A better one. This one’s old.” The words, so casually cruel, struck me harder than a physical blow. “Give it to her, Alessia. Now.” Dante’s patience was gone. When I didn’t move, his hand shot out. He didn’t unclasp it. He ripped it from my neck. The fine chain sliced into my skin, drawing a thin line of blood. He dropped the locket into Seraphina’s outstretched palm. “See?” he said, his voice laced with that chilling possessiveness. “It’s just a thing.” “You don’t understand,” I whispered, tears finally blurring my vision. “It’s not just a thing. It’s her.” Dante hesitated for a fraction of a second. I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—not regret, but a primal flicker of understanding. He knew what he was destroying. Then he nodded to Seraphina. “It’s yours.” Nico clapped. “Happy birthday, Seraphina!” My question was a broken whisper. “Are you happy now? Is this enough?” Seraphina looked down at the locket in her hand, then looked at me, a triumphant, cruel smile spreading across her face. She let it fall to the marble floor. And then, with deliberate, grinding pressure, she brought the heel of her stiletto down on it. A sickening crunch echoed in the sudden silence of the ballroom. Something inside me snapped. I didn’t scream. I lunged, a frantic, desperate attempt to salvage the crushed pieces of my mother, of my past. The jagged edges of the broken gold cut into my palms as I scrambled on the floor. Dante hauled me to my feet, his grip like iron on my arm. “Stop it. You’re making a scene.” “She did it on purpose,” I gasped, cradling the ruined locket in my bloody hands. “Of course she did,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. His lack of denial was more shocking than the act itself. “Apologize to her,” Dante commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that was for me alone. “You upset her on her birthday.” I stared at him, at the monster wearing my husband’s face. The game had reached a new level of depravity. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that it was only going to get worse.