After Six Years of Marriage, I Divorced My Mafia Husband

Bianca's POV

Don Salvatore's mouth traced the column of her throat, and his hands moved across her body with the desperation of a man who had never known restraint.

"God, Adriana..." He groaned against her skin. "I've always loved your body. You feel so good. No one else could ever feel like this. No one else makes me feel this way."

That was enough.

My heart didn't break—it shattered completely, each fragment cutting deeper than any blade the Family had ever wielded. But I didn't scream. I didn't confront them. Instead, I simply closed the door, softly, slowly, as though I were merely a servant who had stumbled upon something she shouldn't have seen.

I turned away.

My heart pounded against my ribs like a caged animal as I stumbled back toward my room. I barely reached the marble bathroom before I dropped to my knees and retched until there was nothing left.

I sat on the cold floor, trembling.

They hadn't just betrayed me. They had done it in this house—under this roof—without shame, without discretion, as though I were nothing more than a piece of furniture to be ignored.

I leaned back against the wall, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

My mind drifted to the last miscarriage I had endured.

It had started early that morning. I woke to searing pain in my lower abdomen, and when I pulled back the silk sheets, they were soaked crimson.

I called for Salvatore, but he never came. He was too busy celebrating Adriana's birthday at the family's private club downtown.

One of the household staff finally drove me to the black clinic—the one the Family kept for matters that couldn't involve hospitals or questions.

Hours later, when he finally appeared, he didn't ask if I was all right. He didn't take my hand. He simply stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his tailored chest, his expression carved from granite.

"Again?" he said coldly.

As if it were my fault. As if I were the defect in his bloodline.

He didn't comfort me. He barely looked at me.

When the doctor pronounced it another unexplained loss, Salvatore merely nodded and walked out of the room without a backward glance.

I had thought he was disappointed in me. I had blamed myself for failing him.

But now I understood the truth.

He wasn't disappointed. He was satisfied.

Because that child—like the ones before—had served its purpose.

He had gotten me pregnant, had me drugged, waited for the miscarriage, and harvested what he needed for Adriana's treatments. And I had apologized to him. I had actually whispered that I was sorry through my tears.

The memory made bile rise in my throat again.

~

I didn't sleep after that.

I spent the remaining hours before dawn arranging everything for my departure—documents, photographs, the few possessions that were truly mine and not bought with Pini money.

Eventually, when hunger became impossible to ignore, I made my way to the kitchen.

The house was silent. The staff wouldn't arrive for another hour.

I made a simple breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, and tea—just for myself. I sat at the long mahogany dining table alone, eating in the heavy silence that filled these rooms like smoke.

My phone buzzed against the polished wood.

A message from my father.

Don Vittorio: I hope you haven't changed your mind again. The arrangements are already in motion.

Me: Never.

Footsteps descended the curved staircase, but I didn't look up.

"Mm, something smells good," Adriana's voice floated through the air, light and poisonous as arsenic in wine.

I gave no reaction. They walked in together, bold as brass, without an ounce of shame between them.

"I hope you slept well, Donna," Adriana continued, the title dripping with barely concealed mockery. "I had a wonderful night, thanks to Salvatore here."

Salvatore cleared his throat, shifting his weight. "Bianca," he muttered, clearly uncomfortable with the transparency of her taunt. "What Adriana means is that she couldn't sleep alone last night. Nightmares. I stayed with her until she could rest."

A small smirk curved Adriana's painted lips, her dark eyes gleaming with triumph.

I continued eating, completely unfazed.

Adriana's gaze swept across the table. There was only one place setting. Her brows lifted in false surprise.

"Oh. No breakfast for us?" she asked, her voice sugary sweet, like honey laced with cyanide. "I suppose we're on our own now."

I kept chewing. I didn't say a word.

Salvatore's attention fixed on me now, irritation bleeding into his aristocratic features. "Bianca. Where's our breakfast?"

I took a slow sip of my tea. "I didn't make it," I said flatly.

There was a pause—heavy, dangerous.

"What do you mean, you didn't make it?" His voice hardened, each word precise as a bullet leaving a chamber.

I shrugged.

Salvatore stepped closer, his presence filling the space between us like a gathering storm. "You are the Donna of this house. Your duty is to support your husband and this Family—and that includes maintaining this household. Or has that become too difficult for you?"

I stood and rinsed my plate quietly, my back to him.

"I asked you a question." His voice rose, cold fury threading through each syllable. "Has it become too difficult?"

I turned around slowly, meeting his gaze without flinching. "You can always eat out. Like last night."

He stepped forward, eyes narrowing to slits. "What the hell is wrong with you lately? You've been acting like a spoiled brat, and it's becoming very tiresome."

I didn't respond.

I reached for the glass teapot filled with hot water, but Salvatore's composure finally snapped.

He snatched the teapot from my hands and slammed it down on the marble counter with enough force to crack the base. The scalding water splashed across my hand and wrist in a burning wave.

I hissed and stumbled backward.

The teapot shattered on impact, and a large shard of glass flew into my forearm, embedding itself in the flesh. Blood welled up instantly, running down my arm in crimson rivulets. I cried out before I could stop myself.

Salvatore blinked. He hadn't meant to do it—not quite like that.

When he saw the blood, his expression softened. For one brief, stupid second.

For one pathetic moment, I thought maybe he would care.

But it didn't last.

Because immediately, Adriana's voice whined from behind him.

"There's no breakfast, and I'm starving, Salvatore. I think I'm feeling faint."

Salvatore gave me a cold, dismissive look—silently blaming me for the entire scene. He glanced at my injured hand with a scowl carved deep into his handsome face.

"You're a Pini wife. You'll survive." He said it like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.

"Remember that the Family Gala is this evening at eight. Get dressed appropriately. I'll send someone to collect you." He adjusted his cufflinks without meeting my eyes.

I pressed a kitchen towel to my arm without a word.

Salvatore didn't apologize. He didn't even have the decency to look guilty as he walked out with Adriana on his arm, her laughter echoing through the marble halls.

~

An hour later, the moving truck arrived.

The men my father had sent were quick and professional—they knew better than to ask questions when a Don's daughter needed something handled quietly.

I stood by the window as they carried out box after box—everything that belonged to me, everything that proved I had ever existed in this gilded prison.

What remained was thrown into the trash.

When they finished, the house looked as though I had never lived here at all. As though Bianca Valente had been nothing more than a ghost passing through these halls.

When Salvatore returned to prepare for the gala, he barely noticed that anything was missing.

I preferred it that way.

Before we left, I glanced around the bedroom one final time—at the silk drapes, the crystal chandelier, the bed where I had lost three children to his greed.

I had already made my decision.

Tonight was the last night I would spend under the Pini name.

After the gala, I would leave. For good.

He wouldn't even realize I was gone until it was far too late.