My “Broke” Husband Was the Mafia Don

After I lost the baby, my coworkers at the hospital said I'd changed.

Day one, I bought myself a designer necklace. No more handing over my savings for Marcello to grease palms.

Day two, I chopped off the long hair I’d kept for five years. No more playing the gentle wife he liked.

Day three, I stopped saving money. I ordered the most expensive lunch on the menu. In the hospital cafeteria, a man in a black suit stopped me.

"Ma'am! The Don's been hit. In a shootout. He's calling for you! You have to come see him!"

I just stared at him, my expression unreadable.

"Are you sure he's asking for Phoebe? Not Camilla?"

I smiled, a flicker of pity in my eyes. "Go find Camilla. She's the one your Don wants to see. Penthouse on Central Park West. You can't miss it."

I turned to leave with my tray.

A voice, thick with the scent of blood but still dripping with authority, stopped me. "Phoebe."

His man, Rocco, sucked in a sharp breath. "Don, what are you doing out here?!"

Marcello ignored him and walked straight toward me.

He was pale, but a slow, cruel smile crept across his face as he reached for my cheek.

"It's you I want to see, Phoebe. What kind of husband gets shot and asks for another woman? Still throwing a fit about the baby?"

I dodged his hand. "I'm not throwing a fit," I said softly.

"Camilla is your brother's widow. As the Don, it's your duty to take care of her. Especially since she can't have kids anymore. And as your wife, I'm supposed to understand and accept it all. I know."

He looked at his empty hand, then at my cold eyes. A flash of irritation crossed his face.

The old me would have cried over every scar on his body, cherished every second with him...

Not this me. This me was a block of ice.

He wanted to say more, but I'd already walked out of the cafeteria with my tray.

A coworker who saw everything whispered in shock, "Phoebe, am I seeing things? Wasn't your husband some street hood? How'd he become a Don? Congrats, I guess you finally made it!"

Bitterness rose in my throat. I could only manage a faint, strained smile.

Marcello was never just some street hood.

He was, and always had been, the Don of the New York mob, the man who held the city in the palm of his hand.

Half a month ago, I went into premature labor. It was a difficult birth, and the doctors said I needed the top specialist if I was going to make it.

I had no idea how to reach someone like that. Just as I was losing hope, Rocco appeared. He said his Don would get me the specialist. The price? I had to give them the baby.

My eyes drifted past him to the man standing in the shadows.

It was my husband of five years.

Our eyes met. Marcello frowned. "Phoebe? What are you doing here?"

There was no panic in his voice. If anything, he seemed relieved.

"Since it's you, we don't need to negotiate. I'll arrange the surgery right away."

Then he added, "After you give birth, the baby goes to Camilla."

The blood in my veins turned to ice.

I stared at this stranger, this Marcello I didn't know, unable to believe my ears.

He felt no guilt. He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Camilla and I, we grew up together. She was carrying Ethan's kid. If she knew her baby died... she couldn't take it."

I was floored.

"For this woman, you lied to me for five years, pretending to be a nobody? Because she can't have children, you're going to steal mine? Are you a monster?!"

Marcello's face hardened with impatience. "Stop making a scene! It's just a kid. We'll have more! Can you stop being so selfish? You're my woman. It's your job to support me, to do your part for the family!"

I gave birth in a haze of terror. I only got to see my son for a second before Marcello's men took him away.

I tried to get him back, but they held me down.

Then Marcello had me locked in my hospital room.

Day one, he made one call. My best friend lost her job.

Day two, he sent his goons to my mother's shop to cause trouble.

Day three, with a single word from him, my brother was kicked out of his Ivy League school.

Messages poured in from friends and family, begging me to make it stop.

Marcello walked into my room. "Just stop trying to get the baby back, and I'll leave them alone."

My heart died.

I didn't ask him why he'd lied all these years. I didn't scream or demand anything from him.

After I recovered, I quietly contacted the hospital director. I told him I would join the combat medic program. With the emergency transfer orders they provided, I filed for a unilateral divorce with my lawyer.

In seven days, when the orders were approved, I would be on a military plane to the border, ending this marriage of lies.

I would leave Marcello. Forever.