Lies of the Mafia Husband

Shortly after we said "I do," the Family sent my husband, Dario, down to the Mexican border.

He told me it was a meat grinder down there—cartel territory. where guys were zipped into body bags every day. He said he had to go—to expand the territory, for the glory of the Family.

He claimed it was too dangerous and that his enemies would paint a target on my back, so he wouldn't take me with him.

I believed him. I stayed behind in his old, rot-infested house in New Jersey, taking care of his bitter, spiteful parents. I spent my days and nights in the Family's moldy laundromat, washing bills stained with blood.

He told me he sent every dime he made down there to the widow of a brother who took a bullet for him. He asked me to be understanding.

I never complained. Day after day, I pressed expensive suits in that humid laundromat, waiting for him to come home.

It wasn't until the eighth year that a mobster came back drunk.

When I asked about Dario, he froze, then sneered at me through a haze of alcohol.

"Dario? Are you kidding? He’s been a King in Manhattan for years. He’s the youngest Underboss of the Corleone family."

I stood frozen, the iron in my hand burning a hole right through a shirt.

"And he got married seven years ago. Biggest cathedral in New Jersey. Half the mob was there to toast the groom..."

He pulled a crumpled photo from his leather jacket.

Snuggled up against my husband was a woman in a high-end couture gown—the very same "poor, widowed sister-in-law" he had told me about.

The next day, I contacted a fixer who specialized in fake IDs.

On the application for a one-way ticket to Europe—a ticket to vanish off the face of the earth—I filled in the fake name I had prepared long ago.

He trapped me for seven years with a sham marriage.

From now on, I’d be done with this damn loyalty.

I had just gotten back to the dilapidated red brick house and hadn't even hidden my passport yet.

The front door was kicked open. A woman dripping in jewels and wearing a vintage Chanel suit stormed in and slapped me hard across the face.

"You look like a beggar, yet you still try to play the mistress? You deserve to die!"

I crashed to the floor, taking the table with me. A bottle of cheap whiskey shattered, and glass shards sliced into my hands, covering them in blood.

Only then did I see clearly. This crazy woman was Sofia—the "widowed sister-in-law" who had been playing house with Dario in Manhattan for seven years.

Seeing she was about to kick me with her red-bottomed heels, I ignored the pain, scrambled up, and shoved her away.

The door opened again, and the figure I had dreamed of for years walked in.

Dario, dressed in a bespoke handmade suit, rushed forward and caught Sofia as she pretended to faint.

"Sofia, are you okay?"

He turned, those once-loving blue eyes now staring at me with a sinister chill.

"Why did you hit her? Apologize to your sister-in-law! Now!"

Clutching my bleeding arm, I looked at this man wearing a Patek Philippe watch, swallowing my heartbreak to speak.

"Dario, we haven't seen each other in almost eight years, and the first thing you do is bring your lover to my turf to act wild?"

"She broke into my home and hit me. Was I supposed to kneel and let her beat me?"

Only then did Dario notice the blood on my arm and the swelling on my face.

His mask of the cold, ruthless Underboss cracked for a second. He pushed Sofia aside and started walking toward me.

"What the hell happened?"

Sofia, arrogant just a moment ago, immediately reddened her eyes, clutching his arm like a frightened deer.

"Dario, as soon as I walked in, I saw this woman sneaking into your bedroom. She looked like the cleaning lady, so I thought she was a thief! I was just so anxious. That's why I accidentally touched her."

She cried, her tears sparkling against her massive diamond earrings—cheap theatrics, but effective.

"You looked so old and tacky; I didn't realize you were Dario’s wife. My dear Elena, if you're mad, hit me back. But you can't spread lies about me and Dario. That’s an insult to the Family's honor."

"You clearly just said..."

I frowned, about to expose her, but Dario cut me off coldly.

"Enough, Elena. You're in the wrong, too. If you had gone to the door to greet Sofia properly, how could she have mistaken you for a thief?"

Dario cleared his throat, switching to a smooth, manipulative tone I didn't recognize.

"This is Sofia, the widow of the brother I told you about. I came back to take you, Mom, and the kids to Manhattan to live the good life."

"Sofia was kind enough to come help with the move. How could you have such dirty thoughts?"

"Apologize to her. That’s the rule."

I looked at the man in front of me, who was reeking of expensive cigars, and turned to walk to my room without a word.

"How about this? I'll have Elena make you an authentic Italian feast to make amends.

"Don't you love Seafood Risotto? I'll have her make it right now."

Dario flashed an apologetic smile at Sofia, then roughly grabbed me and shoved me into the greasy kitchen.

Ignoring my struggles, he threw a bag of live, wriggling lobsters onto me right there.

"Make a good meal for Sofia. Don't embarrass me."

Bang. Dario locked the door from the outside.

I threw myself against it, pulling the handle, but it wouldn't budge.

Outside, I heard Dario’s gentle voice coaxing Sofia.

Inside, the cold, hard shells of the lobsters dug into me. I sat helplessly on the floor.

Seafood Risotto. I made it best.

But the truth was, I hated handling seafood. The fishy smell made me want to retch; it reminded me of washing the blood out of cash in the laundromat.

Dario used to love it. But when he was young, he was nearly drowned in a fish hold during a dock war, and since then, the smell terrified him.

After we married, to help him overcome his fear, I learned this dish from a top chef in Chinatown.

Every lobster had to be deveined and shelled—delicate, painful work.

Whenever I finished, my hands would be covered in cuts from the shells, red and swollen for days.

Back then, Dario would kiss my fingers, swearing that once he became a Made Man, he’d never let me step foot in a kitchen again.

But now? He had probably long forgotten the boy who swore to protect me with his life.

While I was lost in thought, Dario unlocked the door and walked in.

Seeing the mess on the floor, he paused.

Then, he sighed and picked me up, like I was a petulant child.

"Why haven't you started cooking? Are you throwing a tantrum?"

He chuckled, taking out a first-aid kit to bandage my wound, his movements terrifyingly practiced.

"I already apologized to Sofia for you. She’s generous; she let it go. You're just being paranoid. Sofia and I are completely innocent."

"I know you've suffered here. Once we get to Manhattan, I'll make it up to you. I'll buy you diamonds, furs, whatever you want."

With that, he rolled up his silk sleeves, grabbed a lobster, and began to butcher it with expert skill.

I watched his back, words dying in my throat.

He used to refuse to open a can, saying hands meant for killing couldn't hold a kitchen knife.

How did he become more skilled at gutting a creature than a coroner after over eight years away?

In the end, I said nothing.

The fake ID was already in my pocket. I had already decided to vanish.