After My Mafia Ex Buried Me

To think I'd lived my entire life as a princess, only to end up begging my ex-boyfriend to dispose of my corpse.

It was late autumn in New York, and the night wind carried a biting chill.

Standing before the private club owned by the Falcone family, I took a deep breath of air thick with the smell of cigars and whiskey.

My emotions were a tangled mess.

These days, you could find hitmen, money launderers, and arms smugglers, but no one specializing in dignified disposals for fallen royalty.

You would think with so many families falling, someone would have already cornered that market.

A new Family might even make its fortune from it.

I was dying. ALS.

After the shock, despair, anger, and a complete breakdown, I had calmly accepted my fate.

My Family was long gone, and I had filed for divorce from Julian, the heir to the Thorne family, and my husband in name only.

I had no one left anyway.

Death would just be another empty room in my lonely existence.

But I absolutely could not let myself die in this damned, cheap apartment, only to be discovered by some landlord or neighbor and become a case file for the FBI.

Worse yet, being carried off by those bastards from a rival Family, becoming another tool for them to disgrace the Ricci name.

Once those bastards found my body, they would surely take pictures to commemorate the occasion, parading their prize through the underworld.

By then, it would be too late.

I was vain in life. I refused to let my death become a grotesque public spectacle.

I still had some shred of the Family's dignity left.

I would not become a joke to our rivals, a final stain on the Ricci name.

I especially didn't want to become the butt of their jokes at the dinner table.

Rotting, turning black, festering, swarming with maggots.

It was out of the question.

After all, what woman wants to become so hideous, even in death?

Besides, with all the major families in the middle of bloody purges, there were enough bodies to deal with.

Mine didn't need to add to the problem.

So I had to find someone capable of "cleaning up" after me.

Someone who could make me disappear completely after I died, without a sound, without a trace.

After thinking it over and over, I could only think of one person who could pull it off: Massimo Falcone.

The Don of the most powerful new Family in the criminal underworld.

He could certainly help me evade my enemies and arrange a proper end for me.

More importantly, he was the only person in the world I could still trust not to let my illness become instant fodder for the tabloids.

At least, that's how it was seven years ago.

But back then, our breakup had been ugly.

He was just a low-level soldier for my family then, spilling blood for pocket change.

I was the family's revered Principessa.

I knew he loved me with a fierce, desperate passion, but I threw him away after a humiliating tirade.

"Massimo, it was just for fun. I'm bored of you now. Get the hell out of my sight."

"You didn't really think the Don's daughter would marry a street soldier, did you?"

"Ha! I can't afford to bring that kind of shame on the Ricci name!"

Those words were like knives, slicing through every bond between us.

I'll never forget the look of utter devastation on Massimo's face.

I knew it all too well. I had personally destroyed his love for me.

And now, seven years later, he was the Don, a man whose name struck fear into everyone's hearts.

At an age when others were still fighting for street corners, he already ruled the East Coast underworld, a cold, ruthless, and decisive king.

While I had been reduced to this.

And to top it all off, I was dying.

And now I had to crawl back to the same street thug I once despised and beg him to dispose of my body.

To show my sincerity, I decided to meet Massimo in person.

I walked toward the entrance, my steps a little unsteady in my high heels.

The bodyguard on the left noticed me first.

Shock flashed across his face, quickly replaced by vigilance.

He tapped his partner's arm, and they both turned to face me.

It had been seven years, the first time I had ever set foot on Massimo's territory.

"Miss Ricci?" the one on the right ventured, his voice laced with disbelief.

They clearly recognized me, or at least had seen my photograph.

"I'm here for Massimo," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

They exchanged a look, and one of them disappeared into the depths of the club.

A few minutes later, he returned and informed me coldly, "Don Falcone will see you."

The title, Don Falcone, still sounded strange to me. Ironic, even.

How the tables have turned.