My Mafia Husband's Deadly Secret

For years, I was the perfect, quiet wife to Dante Moretti, the most feared Mafia Don in New York. I mistook his lavish gifts for affection and his cold protection for care.

The ninety-ninth time I asked for a divorce, he laughed. An hour later, his mistress, Isabella, called him.

"Get out," he ordered, leaving me on a dark street corner in the pouring rain so he could rush to her side.

As I watched his armored car vanish, I finally understood the truth. Our marriage was a transaction, a pact made to settle my father's debts. I was just a placeholder, a substitute living a life designed for Isabella. Every gift, every gesture, was an echo of her tastes.

He never saw me. To him, I wasn't his wife; I was a possession. An obligation he could discard at will. He thought I was too weak, too dependent to ever fight back. He believed I couldn't survive without him.

He thought I would just run and hide. He was wrong.

You don't escape a man like Dante Moretti. He would hunt you to the ends of the earth, not out of love, but out of pride. To break a pact with a Don, you can't just run. You have to be prepared for war. And standing there, drenched and abandoned, I made a new vow: I wouldn't just leave him. I would burn his entire world to ash.

Chapter 1

Alessia POV:

The ninety-ninth time I asked my husband for a divorce, he laughed.

An hour later, I stood on a dark street corner in the cold rain, watching the taillights of his armored car vanish into the night, his mistress safely inside. That's when I decided: if I couldn't leave him, I would burn his empire to the ground.

It had started in the back of that car, the air thick with the smell of leather and his expensive cologne.

"I want to end the pact, Dante," I said, my voice quiet but firm.

To a man like Dante Moretti-the Don of the Moretti Famiglia, the Devil of New York-this wasn't a request. It was an insult. A challenge to his absolute authority.

He didn't even look at me. His gaze was fixed on the rain-streaked window, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and red. "Don't be a child, Alessia."

"I'm not a child. I'm your wife. And I want this to be over."

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. It was a sound that used to make my heart flutter. Now, it just made my skin crawl. He finally turned his head, his dark eyes, as empty and cold as a winter night, landing on me. He was beautiful, in the way a panther is beautiful right before it snaps your neck. His power was a physical thing, a palpable weight crushing the air in the small space of the car. This was the man who had brought the Chicago Outfit to its knees