Divorce, Mafia Princess Style

"It's all your damn fault!"

Chloe's voice screeched through the monitor, echoing off the rusted metal walls.

I watched from outside, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen.

The container was a dump—smelled like rust and sea rot. No windows, just a tiny vent letting in barely enough air to breathe. Light was crap, made the whole place feel like a coffin.

Damon was curled in a corner, bandaged up and ghost-pale.

Chloe loomed over him, all her fake sweetness gone.

"If you hadn't pissed off Vanessa, I wouldn't be trapped in this hellhole!" Her finger jabbed at him, voice cracking with panic and rage.

Took just a few hours for reality to slap her in the face.

This wasn't some rom-com fairytale. No white knight. No rescue. Just cold steel and consequences.

"Chloe, I..." Damon tried to sit up, wincing hard as pain shot through his chest.

That cocky tone he used to flash around me? Gone.

"Too late for that now!" Chloe snapped, pacing like a wildcat in a cage.

Her heels shrieked against the metal floor.

"I could've kept grinding at the bar, yeah—it sucked, but I was safe! But you—" She whirled on him, eyes lit with fury. "You said Vanessa was just some spoiled girl!

"You said she wouldn't touch me!

"You said the worst she'd do was throw a tantrum!"

Damon's face flushed. "I... I didn't think she'd go this far..."

"Go this far?" Chloe laughed, sharp and hollow. "She's a freaking mafia princess! What, you thought this was just some soap opera?"

She kicked a metal barrel—loud clang.

"The guards said some of those stains on the wall? Blood. And some... yeah." She didn't finish, didn't need to. Damon's flinch said it all.

Silence dropped like a weight. Just wind rattling the container and waves crashing somewhere far off.

They were buried deep in the docks. Even if someone heard them, no one would care.

"Damon." Her voice cracked, way softer now.

She edged closer, fear dragging her back to him. Like it or not, he was all she had.

She crouched beside him, fury melting into raw panic.

"Are we gonna die here?" she breathed.

"We're not," he muttered, jaw tight. "I'll fix it."

"How?!" Chloe grabbed his hand. "She crushed your ribs!"

"I'll beg Vanessa. Tell her I screwed up." He didn't believe it.

Now he finally saw just how dumb he'd been.

After three years in the family, he still thought he mattered. Thought he had pull.

Now he got it—he was nothing but a tagalong.

"Will she forgive you?" Chloe whispered.

"She will," he muttered. "She's still my wife."

Even he didn't buy that lie. Regret was already chewing him up inside.

Two hours later, he bribed a guard for an old phone.

With shaking fingers, he hit record.

"Vanessa... I was wrong. So wrong." His voice shook. "I never should've betrayed you. Never should've brought her into our home.

"I'll do anything. Whatever you want, it's yours. Just... forgive me."

"I love you, Vanessa. Always have." He was choking back tears. "Please... give me one more chance. I won't screw it up again.

"I'll prove to you I'm worthy of being your husband.

Five minutes of groveling. Pathetic.

A long fall from the cocky texts he used to send me.

Now, for Chloe's sake, he was sugar and fake promises.

Still a smooth talker. Just desperate now.

I wiped the message, eyes fixed on the window.

City lights blinked in the dark, cold and nosy—like this whole rotten world was watching.

"Signora, do you want to reply?" Sofia asked.

I tossed the phone down. "Nah. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we watch the show."

"Please, please—let us go!"

I stood outside the container, eyes on the monitor.

Damon was on his knees, shirt soaked with blood, one arm hanging useless.

Chloe crouched next to him—hair a mess, face wrecked, bruises blooming through ripped clothes.

"I messed up, Vanessa. I know that now." His voice cracked. "I'll do whatever you want."

"No more arguments. I swear." He glanced up at the camera, tears clearly fake.

I tapped the folder in my hand, smirking at the performance.

Three days ago, this guy was yelling for a divorce.

Now? On his knees, begging like some pathetic stray.

What a joke.

"Anything?" I said through the intercom, my voice bouncing off the steel walls.

"Yes! Anything!" Damon nodded like he saw a way out.

That flicker of hope in his eyes—he really thought I was going soft.

Sad. He still didn't get it.

"Even if I sell Chloe to the Mexican cartels as a plaything, you'd be cool with that?"

Silence.

Just the wind shaking the container and waves crashing in the distance.

Damon went ghost-white. Lips quivering. No words.

He looked at Chloe, stuck between fury and shame.

She stared back, terrified, begging him with her eyes—not now, not for love.

Survival came first.

"I... I..." He swallowed hard, then looked at me like I'd ruined his life.

For three years, everyone called him the Cortese tagalong. He had the house, the car, but zero respect.

He bought into the whispers, convinced he could be more than just Vanessa's husband.

Sure, I gave him everything, but at parties? He was a shadow.

Chloe made him feel like a king—soft, sweet, always saying the right thing.

With her, he mattered.

But now? One wrong move and he'd be shark food.

So he did what cowards do—fake it. Say what I wanted. Stick close to the money.

Used to be, all it took was a few sweet lines to score cars and watches.

"Hurry up and say it!" Chloe snapped.

Damon made his choice. Jaw tight, he spat, "Anything you want, I'll agree to it."

Then he let out a breath.

"Good." I gave a slow nod. "Looks like you finally get what obedience means."

His whole face lit up. Thought the nightmare was over.

Probably already dreaming up ways to earn my trust again.

Then sell us out to the highest bidder. Get his revenge nice and quiet.

"But..." I let the word hang, voice ice-cold. "Now you want to play weak? Kinda late for that."

The container door slammed open.

Blinding sunlight flooded in. They squinted.

Sofia walked in, hauling a busted duffel like it was trash day.

"By order of La Famiglia," she said, dropping it at Damon's feet with a loud thud, "You ain't Cortese no more."

Then came the file—straight from the Cortese Church tribunal. Black and white. His name wiped clean.

"You're out."

Thunder couldn't have hit harder. Whatever scrap of hope he had? Dead.