Betrayed By The Don: Her Ultimate Escape

On our anniversary, I was basting the roast when my husband’s encrypted laptop lit up on the kitchen counter.

Alex Bradley, the ruthless Underboss of New York, never made mistakes. But tonight, he left a chat room open.

The notification shattered my world: "Is the idiot eating the dog food yet?"

It was from his mistress, Charlotte.

They were betting on whether I would eat the red velvet cake she had spiked with her Rottweiler’s excrement.

I realized then that my marriage was a long-con. I was just a "placeholder" wife to secure his promotion to Don.

To survive, I had to play the part.

Alex sat on the bed, feeding me the tainted cake with a loving smile.

"Eat up, Jillian," he purred. "It’s to die for."

I swallowed every bite of the filth, forcing myself not to vomit until he left the room.

The humiliation didn't stop there.

I found out our marriage license was void.

He publicly bought me a twenty-million-dollar necklace at a gala, then abandoned me to face the debt, forcing me to hand over my grandmother’s earrings as collateral.

He even watched calmly as his family beat me for a prank Charlotte orchestrated.

But the final blow came when I overheard him planning our "romantic" getaway.

"The blizzard hits Friday," he told Charlotte. "It’ll look like a tragic accident. Hypothermia."

He thought he was taking a lamb to the slaughter.

He didn’t know I had been counting down the days.

When we arrived at the cabin and he went to prepare my "accident," I didn't cry.

I tossed one of my boots over the cliff edge to stage my death.

Then I climbed into the black extraction van waiting in the snow.

Alex Bradley thought he had killed his wife.

He had no idea he had just set her free.

Chapter 1

Jillian Andrews POV

I was dutifully basting the anniversary roast, the rosemary and garlic scenting the air of a perfect life, when my husband's encrypted laptop sliced through the domestic tranquility.

The screen lit up with a notification that would dismantle my existence: "Is the idiot eating the dog food yet?"

The screen shouldn't have been on.

Alex Bradley, the Underboss of New York's most violent crime syndicate, did not make mistakes.

He executed men for a stray glance.

He carved out tongues for interruptions.

But tonight, in a display of fatal arrogance, he had left his digital armor chinked open on the marble island.

I froze.

My hand tightened around the basting brush until the wood bit into my palm, grounding me against the sudden vertigo.

I walked over, drawn by a morbid gravity.

The chat room was titled "The Jillian Andrews Comedy Hour."

There were five participants: Alex, his top soldiers, and Charlotte Burgess.

I scrolled up, my breath hitching in a throat that had suddenly constricted.

Charlotte: I told her red was her color. She actually bought that hideous dress for tonight. She looks like a desperate tomato wrapped