His Heartless Betrayal: My Escape from the Mafia

For three years, I was the wife of Damian Costello, a feared mafia underboss who I believed was my savior. I lived in a gilded cage, mistaking his possessive passion for love.

Then, on the day my father was executed, I discovered my marriage was a lie. A photo proved my husband was in Paris, not for business, but to chase the one woman he had always loved: my aunt, Isabella.

I was just a substitute, a younger version of her he could own. He had staged the ambush where he "saved" me, and he only wanted a child with me for my family's eyes.

His obsession was absolute. When a tureen of scalding soup flew toward us in a restaurant, he didn't shield me, his pregnant wife. He threw himself in front of Isabella.

He even screamed at me in front of everyone, "In my heart, Seraphina will never be as important as you!"

I realized my child wasn't a product of love. It was the final piece of his collection—a living trophy.

So after he carelessly signed the annulment papers, I had an abortion. On the day he went into surgery to donate his second kidney to her, I left him a box containing the surgical report and our annulment decree. Then, I boarded a plane and vanished.

Chapter 1

Seraphina POV:

On the day my father was executed, I made ninety-nine calls to my husband, the Underboss of the Costello family. The one-hundredth was not a call, but a text that arrived with the chilling finality of a death knell. It was from my best friend, Chloe, and it contained a single photo that proved my entire life was a lie.

For three years, I had been Mrs. Damian Costello. At twenty-two, I had married a man ten years my senior, a man whose name was whispered in fear across the five boroughs. He was a killer, a monster to the outside world, but to me, he had been a savior. He had rescued me from what I believed was a rival gang ambush, a violent, terrifying night that ended with me safe in his arms. He was my protector.

He had wrapped me in a possessive, all-consuming passion I mistook for love. Our penthouse overlooked the city, a gilded cage I had willingly entered. I believed in the fairy tale.

Then my father was killed in a "territory dispute."

Ninety-nine calls went straight to voicemail. The silence was a physical weight, crushing the air from my lungs.

Then my phone buzzed. A text from Chloe. "Sera, I'm so sorry. You need to see this."

Beneath it was a picture. A grainy paparazzi shot. Damian, on a dark Parisian street, holding another woman in a desperate, rain-soaked embrace. Her face was turned just enough.

My breath hitched. I knew that face. It was the face I saw in the mirror every morning—only older, sharper, more sophisticated.

My aunt, Isabella Rossi.

The gilded cage didn't just crack. It