Saved By The Ruthless Rival Don

For nine years, I was the perfect mafia wife. I laundered Marcus Thorne’s money through my design firm, smiled at his dinners, and ignored the lipstick stains on his collars.

I believed in the Omertà of our marriage. I thought my loyalty was my armor.

I was wrong.

On the night of our anniversary gala, a car lost control and barreled straight toward us in the parking lot.

Marcus didn't look at me. Not once.

He lunged for his mistress, Izzy, tackling her to safety behind a concrete pillar.

I was left standing in the open.

The impact threw me like a ragdoll. I lay bleeding on the cold asphalt, my body broken, watching through the haze as my husband frantically checked his mistress for scratches.

"My ankle," she whimpered.

Without a backward glance, he picked her up and carried her to his limousine, leaving me to bleed out on the pavement.

He didn't leave me because he panicked. He left me because I was just a shield he used to protect what he actually loved.

As darkness crept in, a shadow fell over me. It wasn't Marcus.

It was Julian Croft, his sworn rival.

I looked at the empty spot where my husband should have been and made a choice.

"Get me to the hospital," I rasped, staring into the eyes of the enemy.

"And then help me burn his empire to the ground."

Chapter 1

Ellie POV

I was securing the clasp of the diamond necklace Marcus had given me for our fifth anniversary when my phone buzzed against the cold marble of the vanity, lighting up with a message that would dismantle my life as I knew it.

It was from Chloe. Attached was a blurry photo taken only five minutes ago outside the very charity gala I was about to host.

Marcus, my husband and the Underboss of the Thorne crime family, was helping a woman out of his car. His hand gripped her waist with a possessive familiarity he hadn't shown me in three years.

The caption read: "He brought her to the family table, El. If you walk through those doors tonight, you aren't the wife. You're the punchline."

My heart didn't race. My hands didn't shake.

Instead, a glacier settled in my stomach, freezing over the anxiety that had lived there for nine years.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

The woman staring back was perfect. Her hair was pinned in a flawless chignon, her makeup was understated but exorbitant, and her dress was a midnight blue silk that cost more than most people earned in a year.

I was the perfect mafia wife. The perfect trophy in a gilded cage.

For nine years, I had laundered their money through my interior design firm. I had smiled at dinners where men discussed murder over risotto. I had turned a blind eye to the lipstick stains on his collars because I believed in the vow we made. I believed in the Omertà of