When The Mafia Queen Fights Back

I’d just told my husband we were through. I saw the way he looked at my best friend tonight. He went ballistic.

Marco’s hands froze in mid-air.

The lust on his face evaporated. In its place was pure shock. Rage. Like I’d just spat on him.

"Isabella, what kind of sick joke is this?"

He sat up straight, his brow furrowed, his eyes burning with outrage.

"I'm apologizing here. I'm trying to make things right. And you want to divorce me over a jacket? End the alliance between our families?"

I didn’t say a word. Just watched him perform, my eyes like ice.

My silence was gasoline on his fire.

His voice got louder, with a little whine in it.

"Since we started dating, when have I ever not done exactly what you wanted? Five years of marriage, and I haven't just been your husband. I've been a fucking lapdog for you and the entire Vettori family!"

He jabbed a finger at his own chest, moving closer to me.

"How many times did I screw over my own family to protect your interests? I put your family before my own! And now, because your friend was nice enough to help me with a stain, you're gonna throw away five years of my life?"

"Work?"

A small laugh escaped my lips, but it didn't reach my eyes.

"Cut the act, Marco."

"You talk about loyalty? At the start of the party, Don Antonio's sleazy nephew just looked at Sofia. You shifted your body to block his view without even thinking. That's what a man does for his woman."

Marco’s mouth opened, but I didn’t give him the chance.

"When the main course came, you passed Sofia your sharpest steak knife. You even started cutting her steak for her. It was smooth. Natural. You don’t even pass me a glass of water at home unless I ask."

The color drained from Marco's face. His eyes started to dart around the room.

"And the whiskey." I took a step closer, staring right into his eyes. "Sofia only drinks '82 Macallan, no ice. Not even the Gallo family remembers to stock that year. But you had the waiter put a glass right at her seat before she even arrived."

"It's called being polite! She's your friend!" he shot back, but his voice was weak.

"Polite?"

I snatched the fancy picture frame from the table—our wedding photo from five years ago.

CRACK.

I slammed it face down on the wood.

"Look at the photo, Marco. Look closer."

I pointed at the shattered glass, my voice freezing cold.

"Your hand isn't on my waist. It's behind me. Your fingers are brushing the back of her dress. And look at her. She’s leaning into you, not me."

Marco stared at the photo, his chest heaving.

The truth was laid bare. Every dirty little secret, smacking him in the face.

He had no defense. Shame turned to rage.

"Enough!"

He grabbed his expensive custom suit jacket and threw it on the sofa. The veins on his neck bulged.

"Isabella, you're insane! A spoiled, paranoid, crazy bitch!"

He stormed to the door and grabbed the handle.

"You want me to leave? Fine, I'll leave! But you better get your head straight before you do something stupid!"

He looked back over his shoulder. The fake love was gone. All that was left was a naked threat. The arrogance of power.

"Tomorrow, I'm made Don of the Rossi family. It's a big deal for the entire New York underworld."

He glared at me like I was just a stupid rock in his path.

"I'll give you one day to think about your place. Tomorrow's a big day. Don't do something you'll regret. Don't make a mess so big we can't clean it up."

The door slammed shut, shaking the walls.

The room was dead silent again.

I stared at the closed door and picked up my phone.

"I need a location," I said quietly into the phone. "I want to know where the future Godfather is sleeping tonight."