Shattered Vows: The Mafia Heiress's Ruthless Comeback

I was just the decoration at the gala, the dutiful wife of Chicago's Underboss, Dante Moretti.

Then my phone buzzed with a photo of his hand on another woman's thigh, taken inside the venue just minutes ago.

I finally snapped, leaking the photo to the press to shame him.

Dante dragged me home, pinned me to the sofa, and carved a thin line into my collarbone with a switchblade.

"You don't get to leave until I say you're done," he warned.

But the real devastation came later. An anonymous video file revealed the truth about my mother's "suicide" ten years ago.

She didn't jump. My sister, Sofia, pushed her.

And Dante? He didn't marry me for power. He brokered a deal with my father to cover up the murder and took me as hush money.

I crashed Sofia's birthday party to expose them, but my father slapped me in front of everyone.

Dante grabbed my fresh wound and forced me to my knees.

"Apologize to your sister," he threatened, "or I bulldoze your mother's grave right now."

I swallowed my pride, bowed my head, and apologized.

But Sofia just laughed, pulled out a detonator, and pressed the button anyway.

"Oops," she giggled as the explosion rocked the ground. "Happy birthday to me."

Watching the smoke rise from my mother's destroyed mausoleum, the old Elena died.

I vanished into the night, leaving behind signed divorce papers and my bloodied dress.

When Dante finally tracked me down, I wasn't hiding in fear.

I was standing next to his mortal enemy, Luca Rossi, wearing a massive diamond ring.

I handed Dante a cream-colored envelope.

"What is this?" he asked, his hands trembling.

"An invitation," I said, my voice ice-cold. "To the wedding of Don Luca Rossi and Elena Vitiello."

Chapter 1

Elena Vitiello POV

The vibration of my phone against my thigh felt like a warning shot, but the image on the screen was the bullet.

It was a photo of my husband's hand-unmistakable by the heavy gold signet ring of the Moretti Crime Family-curled possessively around the thigh of a blonde woman I didn't recognize.

The timestamp read two minutes ago. The location: the very bathroom I was currently standing outside of.

I stared at the screen, my breath hitching.

The air in the hallway of the Moretti estate felt suddenly thin, suffocating.

Inside the ballroom, the gala was in full swing.

The muffled sounds of an orchestra, performative laughter, and the clinking of crystal bled through the heavy oak doors.

It was a celebration of power.

Dante Moretti, the Underboss of the Chicago Outfit, was the guest of honor.

I was just the decoration.

The door to the men's lounge opened.

Dante stepped out.

He adjusted his cufflinks, his face a mask of bored arrogance.

He was beautiful in the way a natural disaster is beautiful.

Devastating.

Unstoppable.

And utterly indifferent to the wreckage he left behind.

He looked at me, his dark eyes sweeping over my designer gown with the