The Mafia Marriage’s Cruel Mistake

My mafia husband, the heir Marcello, just asked for a divorce. I said yes immediately.

Marcello froze for a second. Then his face darkened.

"I'm not joking."

"Me neither."

I looked up at him. I didn't blink.

He looked annoyed for a moment, as if I shouldn't be so calm.

He slammed the papers on the coffee table and listed my "sins": too stubborn, not submissive enough, hanging around a biker shop and shaming the family.

I just found it ridiculous.

When he pushed Chloe away back then, wasn't her submissive elegance exactly what he hated most?

There is no right or wrong here.

I knew from the start. Forced love never lasts.

Three years ago, Marcello used me as an excuse to fight his family. He ruined the peace I had finally found.

Back then, I had just been brought to the Russo estate from the Detroit slums.

Life was quiet.

We kept our boundaries and stayed out of each other's way.

She had lost her adoptive parents. My parents asked if I was willing to formally accept her as the eldest daughter of the Russo family.

I nodded. I even called her sister first.

My foster parents in Detroit were poor, but they gave me more than enough love.

I didn't need to envy anyone over class differences. I gladly gave her that dignity.

Until Marcello—heir to the Vitiello crime family—showed up.

He found out about the bloodline swap. He fought everyone, tore up his engagement with Chloe, and insisted on marrying me—a street girl covered in grease.

From that day on, the air in the estate changed.

Father raged. Mother grew bitter. My oldest brother looked at me with disgust. Chloe cried all day long.

To them, overnight, I became a cheap whore who acted innocent but sneaked into her future brother-in-law's bed.

But I didn't take the blame.

I lived by the simplest rule of the Detroit streets: If I didn't do it, I don't own it. I have a mouth, and I will clear my name to their faces.

I laid my cards on the table right at a family meeting.

"I only saw him at mandatory family dinners. I never touched him in private," I coldly looked around at my so-called blood relatives. "He went crazy and changed his mind. That's not on me. I don't care how powerful the Vitiellos are. A Russo daughter is not his random pawn. Call him here. Let's do this face to face. Do not use me as a shield for your failed alliance!"

The meeting room went dead silent.

Father looked moved. My brother quietly sighed in relief. A spark of hope flashed in Chloe's eyes.

They believed me a little. After all, they knew I didn't care enough to lie over the past year.

Right then, tires screeched outside.

Marcello didn't even knock.

He brought a squad of heavily armed mobsters and kicked the estate doors wide open.

Tall and imposing, he carried a heavy, suffocating presence. He ignored every gun pointed at him.

"Who cares if she's from the streets? Go back a few generations, everyone's ancestors rolled in the mud," he exhaled cigar smoke. His voice was pure arrogance.

He walked straight to the center of the hall, scanning the angry Russos, before locking eyes with me.

"If the Russos want to raise a fake, that's your business. The Vitiellos value pure Cosa Nostra blood." He looked down and smiled at me. His tone left no room for debate. "The pact was always between you and me. The Vitiellos will never take a fake."

At the word "fake," Chloe violently shivered. Her face turned ghost pale.

The tiny bit of trust my family had just built for me shattered instantly.

The fire returned to their eyes when they looked at me.

But I didn't look at them.

I glared dead at Marcello.

He was smiling at me, but from the corner of his eye, he stared at Chloe on the couch like a viper.

There was zero love for me in that look. Only a cruel, sick, twisted thrill.

Like he finally got his revenge.

My blood ran cold.

It was bizarre.

He wasn't here to marry me. He was getting back at Chloe. He hated her.

But why?

Weren't they childhood sweethearts?