Kicked Out by My Husband, I Married the Mafia Boss

POV: Chloe

I walked back into the living room, holding the crisp legal document in my good hand.

Mark stood by the fireplace, adjusting his watch. Jessica sat curled up on the sofa, sipping tea Susan had brought her. Susan was leaning over the kitchen counter, still muttering curses under her breath.

I didn't stop until I reached the center of the rug.

"Here," I said.

I whipped the stack of papers straight into Mark’s face.

The heavy parchment fanned out in the air, smacking him across the bridge of his nose before scattering across the dark wood floor.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Mark roared, swatting the flying sheets away.

"Read it," I said.

He bent down, snatching the first page off the rug with a violent jerk of his wrist. His eyes skimmed the bold header.

"Voluntary divorce?" Mark read aloud, his eyebrows drawing together. "Zero claims on marital property? No spousal support?"

"Every word," I stated, locking my eyes on his. "Sign it."

A nasty sneer crept across Mark’s mouth. "Acting noble now, are we? You think playing the proud martyr is going to make me feel guilty?"

"Just sign the line, Mark."

"Gladly." He pulled a silver pen from his pocket, slammed the paper against the mantle, and scrawled his name across the signature box in two jagged strokes. He tossed the pen onto the floorboards. "You really think you’re proving a point, Chloe. The truth is, you’re an idiot. Without my credit cards, you won't survive a single week. You’ll be holding out a cup for change on Fifth Street by Friday."

"I won't cost you another dime," I said.

Jessica rose from the sofa with a soft sigh. She picked up a crumpled, yellowed plastic grocery bag from beside the trash bin and walked over to me, holding it out with both hands.

"Here, Chloe," Jessica offered, her tone dripping with sweet sympathy. "I know Auntie Susan wants you out quickly. You don't have luggage, so you can stuff your spare shirts into this. It'll keep them dry."

I didn't reach for it. "Save the charity for yourself, Jessica. You'll need it sooner than you think."

Jessica pulled the bag back to her chest, her eyes widening in mock hurt. "I was only trying to help..."

"Don't waste your breath on a stray dog, Jess," Susan barked, marching over from the kitchen.

Susan pushed past her son, planting herself right in front of me. Her narrow gaze raked over my body, inspecting every inch of my clothes like a border guard searching for contraband.

"Empty your pockets," Susan ordered.

"I don't have anything belonging to you," I answered.

"I'll be the judge of that!" Susan lunged forward, patting down the sides of my linen trousers. Finding nothing, she darted around the living room, opening cabinets, slamming drawers, and counting the silver spoons inside the credenza. "Mark, check the mantel clock! Make sure she didn't slip the antique cufflinks into her sleeve!"

"She didn't take them, Mom," Mark said dismissively, checking his phone.

"You can never trust these street rats," Susan hissed. She turned back toward me, her gaze dropping suddenly to my right hand. Her eyes locked onto the thin band resting on my ring finger.

"Hold on," Susan snapped, pointing a crooked finger at my knuckles. "Take that off."

I looked down at the simple platinum band. Mark had bought it three years ago from a clearance tray at an outlet mall. It had cost three hundred dollars.

"This?" I asked.

"Yes, that!" Susan demanded, stepping closer, her voice shrill. "Every single piece of jewelry in this house was purchased with Morrison money! Even scrap metal has value. Hand it over!"

"Mom, it’s just a cheap band," Mark muttered, waving a hand. "Let her keep it."

"No!" Susan shrieked. "She doesn't get to walk out of here with a single souvenir from my family! Strip it off, Chloe, or I’ll have the guards hold you down and pry it off your finger!"

I stared at Susan's pinched, greedy face. Then I looked at Mark, who merely turned his head toward the window, indifferent to the humiliation his mother was orchestrating.

A quiet, hollow laugh slipped past my lips.

I gripped the band with my thumb and forefinger. The metal scraped against the fresh blisters from the hot milk, pulling the raw skin, but I didn't flinch. I tugged it free.

Susan reached her open palm out, expecting me to drop it into her hand.

I took two steps to the left.

With a flick of my wrist, I tossed the ring straight into the open trash can by the counter.

*Clink.*

It struck the bottom of the metal bin, burying itself beneath coffee grounds and leftover scraps.

Susan gasped, clutching her chest. "You insolent brat! How dare you throw Mark's money in the garbage!"

"You said it was scrap metal," I replied, wiping my fingertips against my side. "That’s where garbage belongs."

"Get out!" Susan screamed, her face mottled red with fury. "Get out before I call the police to drag you through the mud!"

I met Mark's gaze one last time. "Savor this villa while you still have the keys, Mark. Very soon, you won't even be able to afford the property tax on the front porch."

Mark let out a harsh bark of laughter. "Are you threatening me? I run a hundred-million-dollar firm, Chloe. You’re a penniless nobody with five dollars to your name. Get the fuck out of my house."

"Remember those words," I said.

I picked up my slim leather folder containing only my birth certificate and legal papers. I didn't glance at the closets. I didn't pack a single coat, shoe, or dress.

I turned my back on them and walked straight out the front door.

The front porch greeted me with a blast of icy air. Outside, the sky was pitch black, and rain came down in violent sheets, hammering against the stone steps and flooding the wide driveway.

Behind me, the door didn't shut.

Mark stepped out onto the covered veranda, wrapping an arm around Jessica’s shoulders to keep her out of the spray.

"Hey, Chloe!" Mark shouted over the thunder, his voice full of cruel amusement. "You forgot to call a cab! Oh, wait—you don't have the money for one, do you?"

Jessica rested her cheek against his shoulder, giggling softly into his collar. "Mark, stop teasing her. It's twenty blocks to the nearest bus stop. In this storm, she won't make it five."

"That's her problem," Mark sneered down at me as I reached the bottom step, the rain drenching my hair and clothes in seconds. "Go on! Start walking! Let's see how many hours you last before you come crawling back, banging on my front door, begging on your knees for a dry towel!"

"Don't wait up, Mark," I answered through the downpour, not stopping.

"I'll give you until midnight tomorrow!" he yelled, grabbing the brass door handle. "When you're starving, remember you chose this!"

Mark pulled the door halfway shut.

Then, the ground began to vibrate.

A deep, synchronized rumble tore through the roar of the rain.

Piercing beams of white xenon light cut through the dark storm, sweeping across the front lawn, illuminating the manicured hedges and striking straight into Mark’s eyes.

Mark stopped. He shielded his face with his forearm, squinting into the blinding glare. "What the hell is that?"

The heavy iron security gates at the end of the private lane groaned open.

Through the pouring water, a procession of vehicles surged forward.

One. Two. Three.

Ten identical, pitch-black Rolls-Royce Phantoms glided up the winding driveway in perfect formation, their polished grilles slicing through the spray. They formed a tight, impenetrable crescent around the front courtyard, completely blocking Mark’s silver sports car against the garage.

The engine hum dropped to a synchronized, menacing purr.

Mark’s hand froze on the brass handle. Beside him, Jessica’s smirk vanished, her mouth falling open as the headlights flooded the veranda in brilliant silver light.

The rear passenger door of the lead Phantom swung open.

An elderly man stepped out into the tempest. He wore an immaculate bespoke tuxedo beneath a heavy cashmere overcoat, his silver hair combed back without a strand out of place. He popped open a massive black canopy umbrella, completely ignoring the water splashing against his handmade leather shoes.

He didn't glance at Mark. He didn't look toward the multimillion-dollar mansion.

He walked straight toward me through the flooded gravel, holding the umbrella high above my head, shielding me entirely from the storm.

Then, in full view of Mark and Jessica, the old man bent his waist in a deep, ninety-degree bow.

"Miss Chloe," Harris's gravelly voice rang out, crisp and booming over the thunder. "The Chairman has been waiting for your return."

Up on the porch, Mark’s face turned paper white, his smug expression freezing into pure terror.