The Mafia’s Housewife Revenge

Imogen’s POV

The quiet Roman night couldn't hide the screams stuck in my throat, my hand shook on the cold doorknob of room 704.

I had told Perry I wanted to draw alone tonight, but a cold, sharp feeling had pulled me here. Now, through the slightly open door, I saw them.

Perry, my husband, the man who used to look at me like I was everything, was on the bed, his fancy jacket laid on the floor.

A woman, a stranger with long, dark hair, was laughing, her back to the door, her hand tracing Perry's hard jawline.

My breath caught, I’d known for months, of course. The late nights, the rushed calls, the way his eyes went blank when I talked about anything but money. But knowing and seeing were two different kinds of pain.

A small sound escaped from my mouth, too soft for them to hear. I pulled back as my heart beat like a drum. I didn't storm in, I didn't scream either nor did I even cry.

There was just a huge, empty space where my love for him used to be. For a moment, I just stood there, the hotel hall quiet around me, watching through the crack in the door.

The woman leaned in, whispering something to Perry that made him smile, a real, open smile I hadn’t seen on him in years.

I turned away, not even bothering to close the door. What was the point? The damage was done, the dream broken.

Our trip to Rome, my last desperate try to fix things, was a total failure, Perry had changed so much since he got rich.

He used to be charming, full of big plans that included me, now he was just…shiny and empty.

His touch had become strange, then stopped completely. Our bed, once a safe place, was a cold, wide space.

He bought me expensive jewelry, fancy dresses, a rich life I never wanted, all while holding back the one thing I truly craved: him.

A memory flashed in my mind, from just a few weeks ago, back home. It was like a replay of every lonely night.

"You're home late again," I had said, my voice trying to be light, but it felt delicate as Perry walked in, loosening his tie. The scent of a perfume I didn't recognize clung to him, stomach churned.

He barely looked at me. "Business, Imogen. You know how it is. Deals don't close themselves." His tone was flat, dismissive. It always was.

"But it's every night now," I pushed, a knot tightening in my stomach, a cold dread creeping in. "And you never text back. I just… I miss you. We barely talk anymore." The words tasted like ash.

He sighed, tossing his phone onto the marble table. "Talk? Imogen, we have everything! What more is there to talk about? You're my queen. My beautiful, quiet queen."

He hadn't touched me then, he just walked past, straight to the bar.

A strange urge, a bitter sting, pushed me- I needed to see who this woman was, this quick replacement for the spot I used to have in Perry's life.

The woman finally stood up, smoothing her dress. She was tall, with a confident swing to her hips. Her dark hair was perfect, her red dress hugging her body.

As she walked to the door, she looked back at Perry, a knowing smirk on her face.

I hid myself behind a pillar, holding my breath. The woman stepped out, her high heels clicking softly, she didn't see me. I waited a moment, then another, before quietly stepping out and following her.

This wasn't about Perry anymore, this was about something ugly waking up inside me, a dark, raw feeling that had been buried too long.

I needed to face this woman, not for Perry, but for myself, for the respect Perry had stolen from me. This had to stop!

The woman got into a taxi outside the hotel, I hailed another one, my voice steady as I told the driver.

“Follow that car,” I said, the words feeling strange in my mouth.

The driver, an old man with a cigarette hanging from his lips, just grunted and pulled into traffic.

The taxi finally stopped outside a sleek, new apartment building, very different from the old buildings around it.

I followed her into the lobby, moving quietly, like a hunter. The woman, Ms. Rossi, according to the nameplate by the doorbell, paused at her apartment door on the third floor, fumbling with her keys. I walked up to her, my voice low, shaking slightly.

“Ms. Rossi?” I called out.

The woman turned, her dark eyes, sharp and smart, looking at me up like I meant nothing. A faint, rude smile played on her lips.

“And you are?” she asked, her voice sickly sweet.

“I’m Imogen Cullen. Perry’s wife,” I stated, my voice firm.

Ms. Rossi’s smile didn’t drop, in fact, it got wider, showing perfect, white teeth.

“Ah, yes! The wife. Well, what can I do for you, Mrs. Cullen?” Her voice was full of scorn.

“You need to stay away from my husband,” I demanded, my hands clenching into fists.

I tried to keep my voice steady, but a tremor of rage ran through me.

Ms. Rossi let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Oh, honey, he comes to me, and I’m not the one chasing him.” She leaned against the doorframe, looking annoyingly calm. “He’s very generous, you know, and honestly, a lot more fun than I imagined.”

I felt a cold dread wash over me. The arrogance, the clear disregard for my pain, was suffocating.

“He’s married,” I said again, my voice rising slightly. “We have a life.”

Ms. Rossi scoffed, pushing off the door. “A life? Please. He practically begs me to spend time with him, and between us, he’s been complaining about you for months. Says you’re cold, boring, that you don’t appreciate him anymore.” She stepped closer, her eyes shining with mean fun. “He wants me, honey. He’s always wanted someone with some fire, someone who gets him, not some weak little art student who gave up her passion to be a pretty thing.”

The words hit me like a punch, that’s all I was to him. And this woman, this stranger, was tearing apart my marriage,my life, with a casual cruelty that made me feel sick.

“You don’t know anything about our marriage,” I whispered, my voice barely there.

“Oh, I know enough,” Ms. Rossi purred, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “He told me all about it. And frankly, sweetie, you should just stay in your place. Accept your pretty little life, the one he bought for you. He’s never going to leave me for you.” Her smile was a poisonous cut across her face. “He doesn’t even touch you, does he?”

That was it, that was the crack that broke the last pieces of my calm. The coldness, the emptiness of my bed, the years of quiet wanting—this woman had shown it all, making fun of me with the truth.

My hands stretched out, grabbing her throat. The woman’s eyes went wide in surprise, then fear as I pushed, hard, slamming her back against the door.

The loud thud echoed in the silent hall.

Her breath caught, her hands pulling at my wrists. “What the fu—” she choked out, her voice rough.

I didn’t let go, all the hidden anger, all the years of feeling invisible, of being taken for granted, poured into my grip.

I watched as the fear in her eyes grew, then dulled. The struggle stopped, a last, desperate shudder ran through her body, and then she went stiff.

I let go, and her body slid to the floor, a crumpled pile of red silk and dark hair. I stared down at her, a chilling detachment washing over me.

There was no regret, no panic, only a deep, terrifying stillness.