Divorce, Mafia Princess Style

I'd been gone three months, growing our turf.

Came home to find some chick in my robe, on my couch, sipping my wine.

I called security. Lesson time.

Then Damon—my husband, who only mattered because he married me—jumped in front of her.

"It was a drunken mistake. She's just some poor girl. You're not seriously gonna flip over this, right?"

I slapped him.

"A trophy like you thinks he gets a say now?"

Instead of shutting up, he asked for a divorce. For her.

Cool. I said yes.

He thought ditching me meant freedom. What he didn't get? Without me, he was nobody.

I came back from a three-month grind in Miami, opened the door, and boom—some random blonde was sprawled on my couch, rocking my silk robe and sipping my vintage red like she owned the place.

"Who the hell are you?"

She looked like she'd just stumbled out of a club—perfect makeup, long hair, fake confidence.

"Basement. Let her dry out," I told Marco, my shadow since forever.

"Wait!" Damon, my husband, came flying down the stairs, arms wide. "Vanessa, it's not what it looks like!"

Three months and this was the reunion? He looked like hell—thinner, hair a mess, shirt hanging half-off like he got dressed mid-sin.

"Not what it looks like?" I stepped closer, voice flat. "She's in my house. Wearing MY robe. Drinking MY wine. Wanna explain how that's a mix-up?"

The blonde stood, robe slipping off her shoulder like she rehearsed it. Smirked.

She opened her mouth.

I shut that down real quick. "Did I say you could talk?"

Dead silence.

Damon knew that tone. Three years in, he should've.

"I just... had too much to drink. She—" His voice cracked, scrambling for something—anything.

"She what?" I closed the gap, close enough to catch that cheap perfume still hanging on him.

"She's just a bar girl. Nothing happened," he lied, shaking. "You're always chill. I figured you wouldn't freak over something so minor."

Chill? Minor?

I stared at him.

Then slapped him. Hard.

Smack.

Echoed like a gunshot. He grabbed his cheek, blinking like he didn't believe it.

A red handprint flared up, hot and bright.

"You're a Russo clinging to this marriage like a life raft. What made you think you could act like you run a Cortese house?" My voice? All blade. "You're a prop. Stay in your lane."

"Vanessa—"

"Shut up."

I turned to Blondie. Sized her up. Early twenties, nice curves, but those eyes? Hungry.

"Name?"

"Chloe... Chloe Williams." Her voice trembled. Guess watching your sugar daddy get slapped around does that.

"Cute." I circled her slow. "That robe? Custom silk. Three grand. Looks better on fire."

"I... I can explain—"

"No need." I pulled out my phone. "Sofia, send Ms. Williams to the bar on 12th. Janitor shift. Tonight."

Her face went white. "No, please! I'll leave, I swear—"

"Too late. Your name's Trash Jan now." I looked down at her.

That bar? Total dump. Reeks of piss and