The Mafia Princess is Back

I was a mafia princess in hiding. I gave my husband everything. Then, right after his company went public, he cheated on me at the party I threw for him.

With his childhood sweetheart, Isabella.

“Elena, you can’t even iron an Hermès scarf? Look at these wrinkles. It’s a cheap rag.”

I stopped. The steam from the iron—or maybe my own rage—blurred my vision.

Marco’s mother, Amelia, threw the expensive scarf back at me, her face full of contempt.

“Maria, you iron this.”

I ignored Amelia's glare and tossed the scarf to the maid.

Tonight was the celebration for my husband Marco’s company going public. It was also our tenth wedding anniversary.

Ten years ago, I was the youngest heir to the Moretti family. Destined to be the next Godmother.

After my father, Antonio Moretti, died in a shootout, all five families were watching. They all wanted to see how a twenty-two-year-old girl would take over the empire.

I disappointed them.

Before he died, my father held my hand. He didn’t ask for revenge. He didn’t ask me to restore the family honor.

He just begged me, his voice choked with tears.

"Elena, my princess. I want you to leave this life behind. Wash the blood off the Moretti name. Just live. Be happy and safe."

I was sick of the bloodshed. The endless cycle of revenge and betrayal.

After the funeral, I left the family in the hands of Tony, my father’s right-hand man.

I took my $800 million trust fund and walked away from that life.

I wanted a normal life.

I lived as a painter. And I met Marco.

Back then, he was a broke analyst from a tiny Brooklyn apartment who chased me like his life depended on it.

He thought I was an orphan with nothing and no one. He swore he’d give me the world.

I believed him.

I used my trust fund to give him a five-million-dollar seed investment, lying that I’d sold some paintings.

I worked my connections for him. I took care of his demanding mother. I paid for his sister Sofia’s endless shopping sprees.

And then Marco's company went public.

I went from his "angel investor" to a "trophy wife who only knows how to spend his money."

Marco’s sister, Sofia, leaned against the doorframe.

She filed her new nails and spoke in a cool, bored tone. “Mom, what do you expect from her? Isabella's right, she's not good enough for my brother. And now that his company’s public, she’s trying to tack her stupid anniversary onto his big night!”

Isabella.

She was just better at playing the game. A better liar.

Everything Marco had, he built on my money and my sacrifice.

“Elena!” Marco came down the stairs, looking as handsome as ever in his tailored suit.

He walked over to me, his voice soft, like he was calming a pet.

“Honey, let the maid handle the scarf. I need to talk to you.”

His tone made me uneasy.

“The guests will be here in an hour,” I reminded him.

“I know.” He took my hand, but his eyes went straight to the antique diamond bracelet on my wrist.

“Honey, give me the bracelet for a second. I’ll have it sent to Bvlgari for a cleaning.”

It was the last thing my parents left me. The symbol of the Moretti matriarch.

I had told him it was the most precious thing my “dead parents” had ever given me.

I didn’t question it. I let him unclasp it.

He took the bracelet. But instead of putting it in its box, he turned to Isabella, who had just walked in.

“Isabella, I’m counting on you tonight.” Marco’s voice took on a softness I hadn’t heard in years.

He took her hand.

And then, he took the bracelet—the Moretti family bracelet—and slowly fastened it onto her wrist.

“Marco, this is too much…” Isabella said, but her eyes were shining with triumph.

“Only you deserve it,” Marco said, staring at her like we weren't even there.

“Perfect!” Sofia clapped. “It looks so beautiful on Isabella. That’s what the lady of the house should look like!”

Marco’s mother nodded in satisfaction. “Marco needs a partner who can help his career. Not some wallflower who just paints her gloomy pictures and can’t even iron a scarf.”

My blood ran cold.

Who the hell gave them the nerve to write me off the second Marco got a taste of real power?

“So,” my voice trembled. “Let me get this straight. On our anniversary, the wife is the maid, and the mistress gets to be the lady of the house, wearing my mother's jewels?”

Marco’s expression flickered, but he quickly put his gentle mask back on.

“Elena, don’t be difficult. Isabella knows how to handle these important guests. It’s important for my career, which means it’s important for our future. You just need to stay in the art gallery. Let your paintings be the perfect backdrop.”

Stay in the gallery with my paintings. Like another piece of art on the wall.

In my own home.

On my wedding anniversary.

Isabella stroked the diamonds on her wrist and stepped toward me. “Elena, thank you for all you’ve done for tonight. Your contributions to this night... are noted. Especially your art. A little grim for my taste, but very… unique.”

The sight of them, so smug and shameless, made my stomach turn.

"Marco, you better figure out who the hell the lady of this house really is."