Zero Score: My Escape from the Mafia Don
For three years, I was the wife of Don Dante Moretti. But our marriage was a transaction, and my heart was the price. I kept a ledger, deducting points for every time he chose her—his first love, Isabella—over me. When the score reached zero, I would be free.
After he abandoned me on a roadside to rush to Isabella's side, I was hit by a car. I woke up in the ER, bleeding, only to hear a nurse shout that I was two months pregnant. A tiny, impossible hope flared in my chest.
But as the doctors scrambled to save me, they patched my husband through on speakerphone. His voice was cold and absolute.
“Isabella’s condition is critical,” he ordered. “Not one drop of the reserve blood is to be touched until she is safe. I don't care who else needs it.”
I lost the baby. Our child, sacrificed by its own father. I later learned Isabella had only suffered a minor cut. The blood was just a “precautionary measure.”
The tiny flicker of hope was extinguished, and something inside me snapped, clean and final. The debt was paid.
Alone in the silence, I made the last entry in my ledger, bringing the score to zero. I signed the divorce papers I had already prepared, left them on his desk, and walked out of his life forever.
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Chapter 5
Elara POV:
The nurse rounded on him, planting her hands on her hips. "We've been calling you for hours! Your wife was brought into the ER, bleeding, and you were nowhere to be found."
Dante's jaw tightened, but his voice was flat, devoid of apology. "Isabella was in shock," he said. "I had to ensure she was secure. I didn't know Elara was injured."
He didn't know. He never knew. He never looked.
I looked at him, the man I had loved with every fiber of my being, and felt a chilling calm settle deep in my bones. "What brings you here now, Mr. Moretti?"
He flinched at the formal address. "I was bringing Isabella to her psychiatrist. I saw your name on the patient list at the front desk."
A coincidence. Of course. A bitter, silent laugh bubbled in my chest, lodging in my throat like a stone.
His phone buzzed-a text. Isabella, no doubt. He glanced at it, then back at me. "I'll be back later." He turned to leave without another word.
"Don't bother."
The words were quiet, but they stopped him in his tracks. He stood there for a long moment, his back a rigid wall, before walking out.
A desperate, foolish part of me had to see. I had to be sure. I forced myself out of bed, ignoring the sharp protests of my body. I followed him down the hall, my hospital gown rustling. I saw him enter an office at the end of the corridor. A psychiatrist's office.
Through the one-way glass of the waiting room, I watched. He was holding Isabella's hand, his expression a mask of tender concern I had never-not once-seen directed at me. Through the thick glass, I could just make out the doctor's calm, professional tone explaining that Isabella was suffering from severe PTSD, a result of her previous abusive marriage and exacerbated by the recent "attack." She needed the constant, unwavering presence of someone she trusted implicitly.
Dante's face hardened. After settling Isabella in the office, he stepped out into the hall and made a call, his back to me.
"Find out everything about her ex-husband," he commanded, his voice low and lethal. "And prep the jet. I'm taking her away from the city for a while. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe."
The bitter truth crashed over me in a final, suffocating wave.
Dante wasn't incapable of love. He was an ocean of it.
He simply wasn't in love with me.
I would end this. This sham of a marriage. I would set him free from the vow that bound him to me.
And in doing so, I would finally set myself free.
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