I Resign: The Mafia Boss's Unwanted Wife

I was gasping for air on the cold marble floor of the Syndicate Ball, my lungs seizing in a familiar, lethal rhythm.

My inhaler was just five feet away, but it might as well have been miles.

Dante Moretti, the man who bought my life with his blood eight years ago, looked right at me.

He saw my panic. He saw the weakness he despised.

Then, he turned his back on me to continue waltzing with his mistress.

That betrayal was just the beginning.

When the elevator trapped us days later, the lights flickering and the air growing thin, Dante didn't hesitate.

He pried the doors open and carried Sofia out like a fragile bride.

He left me—his wife with a diagnosed respiratory condition—alone in the suffocating dark to die.

He missed my birthday dinner to comfort her on a Ferris Wheel, leaving me to celebrate with a single candle on a slice of toast.

I finally realized that to him, I wasn't a wife to be cherished. I was just property to be owned.

Something inside me didn't just break; it clicked into place.

I stopped waiting for him to come home.

I left my wedding ring on the table, blocked his number, and walked out into the night.

Now, Dante is tearing the city apart to find me, claiming he realizes his mistake.

But he's too late.

Because the man standing beside me now isn't offering me a diamond ring or empty promises.

He just handed me a loaded Glock and asked if I wanted to be his Queen.

Chapter 1

Elena POV

I was gasping for air on the cold marble floor of the Syndicate Ball, my lungs seizing in a familiar, lethal rhythm, while the man who swore to protect me waltzed in the center of the room with his mistress.

My inhaler was in my clutch.

My clutch was on the table.

The table was five feet away, but it might as well have been five miles.

My vision blurred at the edges. Black spots danced across the crystal chandeliers, mocking the glittering lights.

I clawed at the collar of my dress. It was tight. Everything in my life was tight. Suffocating.

I looked up, desperate for eyes that recognized me.

Dante Moretti held Sofia Rossi close.

His hand, the one with the jagged scar that ran from his wrist to his knuckles, rested possessively on her lower back. That scar was supposed to be my promise.

Eight years ago, he took shrapnel for me. He saved me from the bomb that killed my brother. He bought my life with his blood.

I had spent every day since paying off that debt with my silence.

Dante turned. His dark eyes swept over the crowd. They landed on me.

I was on my knees, one hand gripping the velvet tablecloth, my chest heaving in silent, agonizing spasms. He saw me. He saw the panic. He saw the weakness he so despised.

Then, he looked away.

He