Mafia Ex-Wife: I Bought His Death with His Own Hundred Grand

Ten years of marriage, and my husband slid the divorce papers across his mahogany desk.

"You contributed nothing to this family. Under the prenup, you walk away with nothing."

"Consider this a courtesy. Ten thousand a year. A hundred grand for a decade of your youth."

"Don't even think about touching a cent of family money."

I smiled and signed. I'm the kind of woman who's already died once.

The next day, I took that hundred-thousand-dollar check and walked straight into the territory of his most dangerous enemy—Dominic Salucci.

The man who controls half the East Coast underworld looked at me like I was inventory he hadn't ordered.

"Why should I help you?"

I leaned in close.

"Because I know every decision Vincent Moretti is going to make for the next ten years. Every property. Every shipping route. And I know about the son he's hiding in Zurich."

He studied me for a long moment. Then he smiled.

"Interesting."

What he doesn't know—what Vincent doesn't know—is that in my last life, men like them buried me without a second thought.

This time, I'm going to watch every last one of them kneel.

...

The pen felt cold between my fingers.

Vincent Moretti tapped the divorce agreement with two fingers, sliding it across the polished mahogany of his desk like he was dealing a losing hand at poker.

My eyes caught on his left hand. The pale band of skin where his wedding ring used to sit. He'd stopped wearing it months ago. I'd noticed. He hadn't noticed me noticing.

"Adriana. Sign."

Ten years of marriage. Ten years of keeping his books clean, his schedule managed, his dinner parties flawless, his secrets buried. And this was the severance package. A hundred thousand dollars. Ten thousand per year of service.

I looked up at him, my voice level. "A decade buys me this?"

Vincent laughed—that particular laugh he reserved for people he considered beneath him, which was almost everyone. He loosened the top button of his shirt, settling back into his chair with the lazy confidence of a man who'd never been told no.

"What did you think you were worth?"

He gestured vaguely at me.

"You can't even tell the difference between balsamic and red wine vinegar, Adriana. You think that commands a premium?"

The contempt in his voice was identical to the first time I'd lived this moment. Last time, I'd begged. I'd cried. I'd been escorted out by two of his security detail while his new girlfriend watched from the hallway, already measuring the curtains. I'd ended up in a rental in Queens, dead from a faulty heating system before the year was out.

But that was the last life. This one, I'd been given back for a reason.

I picked up the pen and signed my name in three clean strokes.

"Adriana." Vincent's eyes narrowed at my signature, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He'd expected resistance. Tears. The satisfaction of watching me break.

I stood, pocketing the cashier's check.

"Remember," I said. "You're the one who let me go."

I heard crystal shatter against the door as it closed behind me.

...

The next morning, I stood in the lobby of Salucci Capital, forty-seven floors above Park Avenue.

This was Dominic Salucci's territory—Vincent's most dangerous competitor, the only man in the city Vincent genuinely feared. The Moretti family had been bleeding market share to Salucci for three years, and Vincent's response had been increasingly desperate. I'd watched him drink through too many nights, muttering about "that Sicilian bastard" while I pretended not to hear.

The receptionist looked at me like I'd wandered in from a homeless shelter.

"I'm here to see Dominic Salucci."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Tell him Vincent Moretti's ex-wife has a gift for him. A significant one."

Five minutes later, I was seated across from the man himself.

Dominic Salucci occupied his leather sofa like it was a throne. Legs crossed at the ankle. Eyes doing inventory on everything I was worth. He had the kind of face that revealed nothing unless he wanted it to, and right now, it revealed mild, predatory curiosity.

"Vincent Moretti's ex-wife." His voice was gravel and smoke. "This is unexpected."

I placed the cashier's check on the low table between us. A hundred thousand dollars. My walking-away money. Every cent Vincent had decided my years of service were worth.

"Consider this a down payment on a partnership."

Something shifted in his expression. Interest, maybe. Or the recognition of a fellow predator.

"And why," he said slowly, "would I want a partnership with you?"

I leaned forward. Close enough to see the fine lines around his eyes. Close enough that my voice wouldn't carry.

"Because I know every decision Vincent Moretti's going to make for the next decade. Every acquisition. Every backroom deal. Every weakness he thinks he's hidden."

I paused. Let the next words land.

"And I know he has a secret heir hidden in Zurich."

Dominic's eyes changed. The lazy assessment vanished, replaced by something sharper. More alert. He straightened, his posture shifting from casual to coiled.

"Go on."

I didn't answer immediately. I was back in the last life, floating above my own dead body, watching Vincent throw a birthday party for a child I'd never known existed. Watching him wrap his arm around a Swiss model, telling her I'd been the biggest mistake of his career. Watching him use my father's remaining connections to gut the company my brother had inherited, driving Leo to the roof of a parking garage and over the edge.

The hatred was a physical thing. A weight in my chest. A taste like copper.

Dominic's eyes narrowed. "Words are cheap, Mrs. Moretti."

"Next week, Vincent's meeting with the CEO of Harbinger Technologies. He's going to offer two hundred million for a controlling stake. It'll fall apart at the last minute over a patent dispute neither side will compromise on."

I sat back.

"Verify that. Then we'll talk about what else I know."

His fingers drummed once on the armrest. Twice. He was calculating.

Three days later, his assistant called.

"Mr. Salucci would like to meet. He says you were right about the patent issue."

When I walked back into his office, the dynamic had shifted. He wasn't assessing me anymore. He was waiting for instructions.

"Now," he said, "tell me about the South Ward development."