Betrayed Wife: Saved By The Mafia King

Nessa POV

I lay on the cold floor for what felt like hours, though the clock insisted it had only been minutes.

The silence of the villa was no longer peaceful; it was deafening.

Every inch of my body screamed in protest as I dragged myself to my purse to find my phone. My fingers trembled as I tried to call an ambulance.

Service Suspended.

Panic flared in my chest. I tried to use a ride-share app.

Payment Declined.

Cold realization washed over me. They had frozen everything. My cards, my phone plan, my life.

I was a ghost in my own home.

Somehow, I managed to crawl to the landline in the kitchen and dial a local taxi company. I paid the driver with the diamond earrings I was wearing-the only assets I had left on my body.

Seven days passed.

Seven days of hell.

I was staying in a run-down motel on the outskirts of the city, hiding like a fugitive.

The bleeding had finally stopped, but the cramping was constant, a dull ache that never let me forget the danger. I needed a doctor, but I couldn't go to the family physician. They would report me to Xander in a heartbeat.

I checked social media on a prepaid burner phone I'd bought with cash pawned from my watch.

Rissa had posted photos.

Family Vacation in the Maldives. Healing from the trauma.

They were drinking cocktails on a beach while I was bleeding in a Motel 6.

A notification popped up.

A viral post from a gossip site.

The Truth About the Lino Sisters.

It featured a photo of Rissa's marriage license-the real one.

But the caption twisted the narrative into something unrecognizable.

Sources say Nessa Lino seduced her sister's husband and tried to pass off her illegitimate child as the heir. The brave Rissa Lino finally reclaimed her place.

They were rewriting history. Making me the mistress. Making my child the bastard.

My phone rang. It was Carlo.

"They're moving fast, Nessa," his voice was tight, urgent. "Salvo has called a shareholder meeting in three days. He plans to sell the Lino shares to a shell company owned by Serena."

"He can't," I said, my voice raspy from disuse. "The trust..."

"He's forging your signature on a consent form. If that sale goes through, the assets are gone before the 'Clean Hands' clause can trigger."

"I have to stop him."

"You need to stay hidden," Carlo warned. "There's a hit out on you. Xander told the soldiers you've gone mental and are a danger to the family."

"I'm going to the clinic," I said, ignoring his warning. "I need to check on the baby. Then I'm going to war."

I pulled a hoodie over my head and went to a low-end community clinic nearby.

The waiting room was crowded, smelling of stale coffee and antiseptic.

I kept my head down, but the TV in the corner was playing the news.

My face was on the screen. Wanted for Questioning: Mental instability.

A woman sitting opposite me squinted, her eyes darting from the screen to my face.

"Hey," she said, her voice shrill. "Ain't that the homewrecker?"

The room went quiet.

"Yeah," a man sneered, standing up. "That's the bitch who attacked her pregnant sister."

I stood up to leave, heart hammering against my ribs.

"Not so fast," the woman said, grabbing my arm with surprising strength. "You think you can just walk away after what you did?"

"Let me go," I said, panic rising in my throat.

I dialed Xander's number on the burner phone. I didn't know why. Maybe I wanted him to hear me die.

Rissa answered.

"Well, look who it is," she laughed, the sound grating. "The rat crawls out of the sewer."

"Put Xander on," I gritted out.

"He's busy," she said. "But I'll put you on speaker."

"Xander!" I screamed. "They're going to kill me!"

I heard his voice in the background, cold and detached. "Is that her? Tell her to sign the papers and I'll call off the dogs."

"Did you hear that, sister?" Rissa mocked. "Sign the assets over, and maybe we'll let you live."

The woman in the clinic shoved me hard. I stumbled back, hitting the wall.

"Get her!" someone yelled.

A man picked up a metal chair. He raised it high, aiming for my head.

I curled into a ball, protecting my stomach.

I closed my eyes, waiting for the impact.

Thud.

The sound was heavy, meaty. But I felt no pain.

I opened my eyes.

A shadow had fallen over me, blocking out the harsh fluorescent lights.

A man stood there. He had caught the metal chair with one arm. His suit jacket strained against the muscle as he held the weight effortlessly.

He didn't even look at the attacker. He tore the chair from the man's grip and tossed it aside like it was made of cardboard.

The room froze. The air temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

The man turned to face the crowd.

His eyes were the color of gunmetal. His jaw was set in a line of pure, unadulterated violence.

Killian Qiro.

He looked down at me, huddled on the dirty floor.

Then he looked at the mob.

"Who dares?" his voice was a low growl that vibrated in my chest. "Who dares call a Qiro child a bastard?"

He reached down.

I flinched, instinctively bracing for another blow.

He paused, his expression softening for a fraction of a second.

"Easy," he whispered. "I've got you."

He scooped me up into his arms as if I weighed nothing.

I pressed my face against his chest. He smelled like rain, aged scotch, and the metallic tang of gunpowder.

"Xander..." I whispered, my vision blurring.

Killian stepped over the cowering attackers, his stride steady and lethal.

"Xander is a dead man walking," Killian said. "He just doesn't know it yet."