The Mafia Wife's Wicked Payback

"Don't be dramatic, Viola. It's just a different mode of transport."

Dante, my husband, the Don of the Bellini famiglia, said the words with the weary dismissal he usually reserved for a botched shipment or a low-ranking Soldato's screw-up.

He was talking about my life.

It was unprecedented for Dante to leave New York during a territorial dispute, which was why I’d planned this strategic retreat to Sicily. I was the famiglia's legitimate front—owner of six high-end boutique hotels—and I could easily afford it. My businesses cleared three hundred thousand dollars monthly, a clean sum he often needed to cover his volatile “operations” payroll.

I spent six months negotiating ceasefires with rival families, securing safe passage through their territories. Sicily was a minefield of old vendettas. Each district required separate tributes, some demanding fifty thousand dollars just for a thirty-minute drive.

Everyone else—Dante's parents, Carla and Emilio, and his sister, Gina—just stood back while I handled the ceasefires, the permits, the safe houses, and the money. They’d lived comfortably in our penthouse for a decade.

Emilio studied his whiskey. "Chiara is blood of our blood," he muttered, avoiding my gaze. "She played in these streets with us as kids. She couldn’t handle the stress of navigating Naples alone."

Carla floated over with conciliatory hands. “Tesoro,” she cooed, using the false term of endearment. "Chiara and Dante shared a cradle. Their fathers were like brothers. Of course she should be with famiglia. Just take the later flight and meet us at the villa.”

Gina, draped in the Valentino I’d bought her last month, leaned in. "Viola, darling, Chiara is... fragile. You’re steel. You’ll manage a commercial flight."

I laughed, the sound bitter and sharp.

"Fragile?" I asked. "Chiara’s fragility is costing the famiglia an armored motorcade I secured and paid for. Her anxiety is putting me on a flight path where rival associates disappeared last month. She gets the shield, and I get the target on my back."

Dante stepped toward me, his voice a dangerous low rumble. "We can't make her travel unprotected, Viola. She's been through enough."

"And I haven't?" I shot back, meeting his black-ice eyes. "Who's really famiglia here? An outsider gets treated better than your banker, your shield, the one who actually owns the safe house you’re flying into?"

My voice dropped to a cutting whisper that silenced the room.

"One would think Chiara was your Don’s wife."

The penthouse elevator chimed then. Gina rushed to greet Chiara, who swept in wearing a couture dress that cost more than Dante’s last weapons shipment.

"Chiara! God, I’ve missed you! Come in!" Gina took Chiara’s oversized Fendi luggage. "If only you hadn’t left for Milan after the engagement fell through—you’d be my sister for real!"

Carla clasped Chiara’s jeweled hands. “Exactly! I always pictured you in the family portraits. In my mind, no one else ever took your place.”

They said this three feet from me. Without a hint of shame.

I looked at Dante. He stood there, watching Chiara, his expression soft with a nostalgia that erased a decade of our marriage. He didn't defend me. He didn't even see me.

At that moment, the love I’d poured into this man, into this famiglia, turned to lead in my gut.

"Fine," I said, my voice empty of emotion. "You want me to make this concession? You want the grace of a real Don’s woman?"

I walked past them, picked up my own bag, and smiled sweetly at Chiara. "Enjoy the ride, darling. I hear the motorcade is terribly luxurious."

Then I walked into the elevator and pressed the button for the garage. I didn’t look back at Dante. He would think I was simply following orders.

He was wrong. The game had just changed.