After Divorce I Left With the Mafia King Babies, Now He Wants Me Back

Alessandro's hand still hung in the air, suspended between violence and regret, when his gaze met the shattered glass of my eyes. I stared at him through a haze of pain so raw it split the world in two. A guttural sob tore itself from the deepest vault of my chest, and I tasted copper as blood traced a slow, warm line from the corner of my mouth to my chin.

"A-Are you alright? Elena..."

He reached for my face. I flinched as though his fingers were the barrel of a loaded gun and scrambled backward, my knees scraping against the cold marble floor as I fought to stand, to put distance between his hands and the two lives sheltered inside me. Even now, after everything I had given him, his touch burned like lye poured into an open wound.

"Sister, please forgive me. It is all my fault." Ginevra's voice was a practiced tremor, the perfect pitch of manufactured guilt. She turned to Alessandro with wide, glistening eyes. "Please, apologize to Elena. Quickly."

Alessandro did not move. He stood rooted to the floor of the parlor, his jaw set like granite, watching me retreat from him the way a wounded animal retreats from the thing that broke it. Something flickered behind his eyes. Recognition, perhaps. Or merely inconvenience.

"Elena." His voice dropped into the low, measured register he used when issuing commands to his soldiers. "Listen to me. If you apologize to Ginevra, I will forget this incident. We can act as though nothing happened."

The humiliation was a living thing. It coiled around my throat and squeezed until the only air I could draw came in ragged, burning gasps. Hot tears blurred the image of my husband, the man who would soon father the two children growing beneath my ribs, standing before me with nothing on his face but irritation dressed in the thinnest veneer of guilt.

Ginevra pressed both palms to her mouth, her shoulders shaking with sobs so delicate they could have been rehearsed in front of a mirror. "Oh my God. It was never my intention to create a rift between you. I cannot believe I caused harm to my own sister."

She rose from the settee with the practiced wobble of a woman who had perfected the art of appearing fragile. Annoyance flashed across her features for the briefest instant, a crack in the porcelain mask, before she turned and hurried from the room as though she were the one who had been struck. As though she were the one bleeding.

"Ginevra, wait." Alessandro's voice sharpened. He glanced back at me, and the look he gave was not that of a husband to a wife. It was the look a capo gives a soldier who has embarrassed him in front of the wrong people.

"Elena." He straightened the cuffs of his shirt. A fleck of my blood stained the edge of his sleeve, and he did not notice. "Go home. Apply some medicine to your face. You have disappointed me beyond measure tonight, so do not expect me to return."

He spoke the way a master speaks to something owned. Then he walked out of the room after Ginevra without looking back. Not once.

Three years of devotion. Three years of sacrifice carved from my own flesh and blood, discarded in a single backhand and a handful of cold words. Alessandro had chosen my sister over me with the same ruthless efficiency he used to settle debts in the family's territory.

Even after everything that had unfolded at his birthday celebration, I had clung to one fragile belief: that even if my life was a circle of hell with no exit, at least my children would know their father's love. At least they would have his name, his protection, the weight of the Leoni bloodline shielding them from the cruelty of this world.

In that moment, standing alone in the parlor with blood drying on my chin and my knees trembling beneath me, I understood the truth with the clarity of a knife pressed to bare skin. Neither I nor the twins growing inside me had ever held a place in this house. We were ghosts haunting rooms that had never been ours.

I walked through the grand foyer of the Leoni estate, past the oil paintings of dead patriarchs and the crystal chandeliers that scattered cold light across the obsidian floors. The mansion I had once called home loomed around me like a mausoleum. Only when I reached the iron-studded front doors did I realize my phone was still inside.

I turned back.

Every step sent pain shooting through the gash in my knee, but I dragged myself through the corridor toward Ginevra's suite on the second floor. My hand was raised to knock when the sounds seeping through the gap beneath the heavy oak door stopped me as surely as a bullet.

Muffled moans. Breathless whimpers. The rhythmic creak of a bed frame against the wall.

My entire body went rigid. Ice flooded my veins, so sudden and absolute that for a moment I forgot how to breathe. Through the narrow crack where the door had not been fully closed, I saw them. Two bodies, half-undressed, tangled together on silk sheets the color of arterial blood.

"Oh, Alessandro..." Ginevra's voice was a syrupy purr between kisses, her fingers trailing down his chest to his left hand. "You should take off your wedding ring."

"No." He caught her wrist, pressed her hand flat against the mattress, and leaned down to bite the curve of her neck. "Doing what is forbidden makes it even hotter. If only Elena were half as desirable as you..."

He held the ring in place. The ring I had slipped onto his finger three years ago in a ceremony blessed by Don Enzo Leoni himself. He wore it like a trophy of conquest while he defiled everything it was supposed to mean.

My husband had not only struck me for my sister. He had used the violence as a pretext to cast me out so he could bed her in the very house where I had served him like a ghost with no name.

I stumbled backward. My spine hit the corridor wall, and I pressed my hand over my mouth to trap the scream clawing its way up my throat. My lips trembled so violently I could feel my teeth rattling against each other as Alessandro's grunts and Ginevra's theatrical cries of pleasure bled through the wood like poison through a wound.

This was the man I had once loved more than my own life.

Three years ago, when a rival family's assassination attempt had left Alessandro bleeding out on the floor of a warehouse in Red Hook, I had begged Don Enzo Leoni to use me however the family saw fit if it meant saving the man I loved. Alessandro needed a kidney donor. No one in the Family was a match. I was.

Blind with love, I had climbed onto that operating table and let them cut me open. I gave him a piece of my body so that his could go on living. Afterward, the doctors said he needed regular blood transfusions to stabilize. I rolled up my sleeve every month without hesitation, watching my blood flow through the tube and into the bag, giving him everything I had left to give.

When he finally came home, gaunt and pale and still fragile, I told myself he needed rest. He needed comfort. So I worked three shifts at Signora Mancini's trattoria, sometimes going days without sleep, pouring every dollar I earned into his recovery, into the medicines and the private nurses and the imported supplements his family could have easily afforded but chose not to provide.

Three years of memories collapsed around me like a detonated building, each floor crashing into the one below, burying me alive in the rubble of everything I had believed.

Even after surrendering my body, my blood, my youth, and my dignity, I had never been more than a servant in Alessandro Leoni's eyes. I was not even worthy of being Ginevra's substitute. I was simply nothing.

The diamond ring on my finger, engraved with Alessandro's initials in elegant script, suddenly felt like a shackle forged from white-hot iron. Bile surged into my throat. I clawed at the band with my nails, tearing at my own skin until thin lines of blood welled up around my knuckle, until the ring finally slid free with a faint, wet sound.

I could never love this man again.

Tonight I would lessen his burden. I would disappear so completely that no soldier, no informant, no network of eyes and ears spread across the five boroughs would ever find me. Like a house of mirrors struck by a single stone, my life fractured into a thousand jagged reflections, each one showing me a different version of the fool I had been.

I placed the ring on the marble-topped console beside a vase of white lilies in the corridor. The metal clinked against the stone with a sound so small and final it could have been the closing of a coffin lid.

Then I ran.

My heels struck the hardwood floors in sharp, percussive beats that echoed through the empty halls of the Leoni estate like gunshots. I did not look back.

This marriage was as broken as the heart still beating uselessly inside my chest.