No Roses for the Mafia Wife

My fiancé is the heir to a mafia empire.

For seven years, I believed our love was the one true thing in a world built on lies.

Then, on the night of our engagement party, I found him holding another woman — my own half-sister, the daughter of our family’s oldest enemy — whispering words that shattered everything:

"I regret everything. Come back to me, and I’ll call off the wedding."

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry.

I made a phone call instead.

Three weeks later, on what should have been our wedding day, I erased my identity and vanished from his world.

But not before making sure our wedding would be one he — and every family in the underworld — would never forget.

The call was simple.

"I’m not getting married."

My mother’s voice on the other end held no surprise, only a weary understanding that tasted of Sicilian lemons and old regrets. "Come home, Joanna. The family needs you. And you deserve better than a Rossi’s leftovers."

I ended the call and stared at the diamond on my finger — Alexander’s engagement promise, a glittering lie. In three weeks, I would vanish. But first, I had to endure the pantomime one last time.

Tonight was the engagement gala at The Velvet Room. A display for the Five Families: the Moretti name restored to respect through my marriage to the Rossi heir. My victory lap. My final performance.

I should have known the script would change.

Isabella Conti walked in.

My half-sister. The living reminder of the woman who destroyed my mother, draped in white silk and a smirk.

When my champagne flute slipped, staining her pristine Louboutins, instinct made me reach for Alexander. He pushed me away.

"Control yourself, Joanna," he snapped, his eyes never leaving Isabella. "Apologize to Bella."

The room froze. Made men, their polished wives, associates with cold eyes — all witnessing the Rossi heir choose a Conti over his own fiancée.

Humiliation burned, sharp and clean. I called security.

Alexander’s face darkened, a storm gathering in features I once traced with devotion. "You’re drunk and embarrassing this family," he said, each word a public lashing. "You’re not fit to be a Rossi wife."

Then he left. With her.

I wandered the Red Hook docks for hours, the salt air doing nothing to cleanse the shame seeping into my bones. By the time I returned to Harborview Mansion, my feet were bleeding through the satin of my Valentino heels — his engagement gift. A size too small. A fitting metaphor.

Then I saw their shadows through our bedroom window, tangled against the drawn curtains.

My hands were steady as I opened the encrypted security app. The feed showed Isabella on our leather sofa, Alexander feeding her soup, his hand gentle on her ankle.

"You still love me," she purred, a cat with its prey. "This whole wedding… it’s just to make me jealous, isn’t it? The ring, the mansion… even her shoes were ones