Unmasking My Mafia Fiancé
My fiancé, a mafia Capo, promised the painkillers would help after the "car crash." It was a lie. The real accident was his temper, and I was his favorite punching bag.
In a medicated haze, I overheard the truth. He was on the phone with his consigliere, boasting about stealing my billion-dollar casino blueprint. He was going to use it to become Underboss.
He planned to propose, then use our world's code of silence to legally gag me from ever claiming my own work. His mistress, Olivia, would be the public face of the project.
The worst part was the truth about my miscarriage. It wasn't an accident. He and Olivia had orchestrated it, calling our baby a "complication" that would kill his ambition.
At a party, he proved it all. After shoving me to the ground in front of everyone, he walked away with her, leaving me in a heap of humiliation.
The love I had for him didn't just die; it turned into a cold, hard certainty. He had taken my work, my child, and my dignity.
So I sent him one last email: a file containing proof of every lie, every betrayal, and a video of his abuse. The subject line read: "My Wedding Gift." Then I boarded a one-way flight to New York to partner with the one man he truly feared. This wasn't a breakup. It was war.
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Chapter 4
Serafina POV:
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and despair. I found Ethan in a private room, looking haggard and shrunken in the sterile bed. He didn't ask about me. He didn't apologize for the gala.
He just complained.
"The pressure is insane, Fina," he whined, raking a hand through his disheveled hair. "The Don wants results yesterday, and Olivia... she's demanding. She needs constant fucking attention."
Without a thought, I slipped back into our old pattern. I fluffed his pillow. I poured him a glass of water. I played the quiet, competent caretaker he had always relied on. It was a role I knew by heart, a suffocating comfort.
He drifted off to sleep, and in the ensuing quiet, he murmured a name. Not mine.
"Olivia... I'll fix it. I promise. I'll fix everything for you."
My hands stilled. Of course. Even in his subconscious, it was all about her.
When he woke up, he met my gaze with an arrogant certainty that made my skin crawl. "See? I knew you'd come. You'll never leave me." He reached for my hand, his grip possessive, proprietary. "Now, about our wedding..."
His phone buzzed on the bedside table. A frantic series of texts flashed across the screen. It was Olivia. I could see the words from where I stood. Paparazzi. PR crisis. You need to handle this NOW.
The change was instantaneous. The mask of the weary patient shattered, replaced by raw panic. He ripped the IV from his arm, ignoring my automatic protest.
"I have to go," he said, scrambling out of bed. "I have to go save her."
He stumbled toward the door, pulling on his discarded jacket. He paused and looked back at me—not with love, but with the casual expectation of a man addressing his furniture.
"Don't worry about me," he said with a dismissive wave. "You'll be fine. Keep my seat warm."
And he was gone.
I stood there in the ringing silence, watching the door swing shut. The last shred of pity I might have felt for him didn't just vanish; it evaporated, replaced by a chilling, absolute clarity.
I drove back to the apartment and finished packing. I loaded the last of my luggage into the trunk of my car. As I slammed it shut, a familiar black sedan screeched into the driveway, tires protesting against the pavement.
It was Ethan.
He got out, his expression thunderous. He saw my bags in the back seat. His mouth opened, a question forming on his lips.
But then the Bluetooth in his car, still connected to his phone, sprang to life. Olivia's name flashed across the dashboard display.
Without a second thought, he answered the call.
"I'm on my way, Liv," he said, his voice soothing. He slid back into the driver's seat and sped away, leaving me standing in the driveway.
His voice, tinny and distant, echoed from the car's speaker as he disappeared down the street.
"Serafina will be fine. She always is."