I Resign: The Mafia Boss's Unwanted Wife

Elena POV

The bedroom door crashed against the wall, shattering the silence.

Dante didn't just walk in; he invaded the room.

He flipped the switch, flooding the space with a blinding, aggressive glare.

I sat up, shielding my eyes, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Before I could adjust, his hands were on me. He grabbed my shoulders, his fingers digging into my skin.

He shook me, once, hard.

"Why were you with him?" he roared, the sound vibrating in his chest.

"I wasn't with him," I said, my voice trembling but firm. "He walked by. That was all."

He released me as if burned.

He began to pace the room, running a hand through his chaotic hair.

He looked unhinged. His eyes were wide, darting around the room, seeing things that weren't there.

"I'm hungry," he said suddenly, the shift in tone jarring.

"There's bread in the kitchen," I said, watching him warily.

"I want Tortellini," he demanded. "The ones with the cream sauce. Make them."

"It's 3 AM, Dante."

"I don't care. Make them."

I looked at him, really looked at him.

He looked exhausted, worn down to the bone.

But there was something else beneath the fatigue.

Desperation.

And then it clicked.

Sofia loved Tortellini.

She had mentioned it in the elevator weeks ago.

He wanted to bring her comfort food.

And in his twisted, compartmentalized mind, he wanted his wife to cook it.

I got out of bed, my movements slow, deliberate.

I walked to him.

I reached out and traced the scar on his hand—that jagged line of white flesh that marred his skin.

"Do you remember how you got this?" I asked softly.

He snatched his hand away.

"Don't start with the history lesson, Elena. Just cook."

"No," I said.

"What?"

"I'm out of heavy cream," I lied, holding his gaze. "I'd have to go to the store."

He grabbed my arm again.

His grip was bruising, possessive.

"Go then. There's a 24-hour market."

I looked at his hand on my arm.

Then I looked up into his eyes.

"Does she like them with extra parmesan?" I asked.

The question sucked the air out of the room.

Dante froze.

His grip loosened, his fingers going slack.

He stepped back, putting distance between us.

He didn't deny it.

He didn't say her name.

But the truth hung between us like a guillotine blade, waiting to drop.

"Go back to sleep," he muttered, his voice hollow.

He turned and strode out, leaving the door wide open.

Dawn broke gray and cold, the light unforgiving.

I found him in the kitchen hours later.

He was holding a thermos.

He was dressed for travel, impeccable in his suit, the mania of the night hidden beneath tailored wool.

"I have to go to Italy," he said, avoiding my eyes. "Business with the Calabrians."

He was lying.

The Calabrians were in London this week. We both knew it.

"Okay," I said.

"When I get back," he said, adjusting his cuffs, "we need to have dinner with your parents. Saturday."

"Why?"

"To discuss the wedding," he said. "The merger needs to be finalized. The other Families are asking questions."

The wedding.

The cage.

"My parents are away," I said.

"Where?"

"Cruising," I replied. "No signal."

His phone rang, shattering the tension.

He checked it, and a flicker of urgency crossed his face.

"I have to go," he said.

He picked up the thermos.

The faint scent of garlic and cream wafted from it. It was filled with Tortellini from the deli down the street.

"Goodbye, Dante," I said.

He paused at the door.

He looked at me.

For a second, just a second, he looked like he knew.

Like he sensed the ground shifting beneath his feet.

"See you Monday, Elena."

He walked out.

I locked the door, sliding the deadbolt home with a finality that echoed in my chest.

"No," I whispered to the empty room. "You won't."