Mafia Husband, Please Sign for My Divorce！

Before Dorothea could even react, one of the soldiers had already yanked a life jacket from beneath the seat.

With multiple fractures in both hands, she had no strength to resist at all. All she could do was watch helplessly as they forced the life jacket over her head, cinching the straps with the impersonal efficiency of men who had been given an order and intended to follow it.

With a loud splash, she was shoved into the churning sea.

The cold, salty water soaked into the countless wounds on her hands, and the surface of the water quickly bloomed red. The life jacket kept her face above the waves, but the pain was so total, so consuming, that she couldn't tell where her hands ended and the ocean began. The yacht's lights shrank to a point. Then to nothing. The sea was black and limitless and she was alone in it, bleeding into water that didn't care.

When she woke up again, she was already in the hospital.

Olga Valente sat at her bedside, faint shadows beneath her eyes, as if she had been keeping vigil for days. She wore no jewelry. Her reading glasses rested on the nightstand beside a cold cup of espresso, and her silver hair was pulled back without its usual precision. She looked, for the first time in Dorothea's memory, like a woman who had been afraid.

"Dorothea. You're finally awake."

Dorothea's voice was hoarse. "Mom… how long was I out?"

Olga sighed. The sound carried weight, the kind of exhale that came after days of sitting in hospital chairs, making calls to surgeons and forgers and contacts in foreign cities, holding the machinery of a crime family together while her daughter-in-law lay motionless under fluorescent lights.

"This is all my fault. I didn't know Jimmy could be that heartless. By the time we got the news, you'd already been drifting at sea for a full day and night. After they rescued you, you spent a week in the ICU before your condition stabilized enough to move to a regular room. Altogether, you were unconscious for ten days."

Ten days. Dorothea absorbed the number. Ten days while the Valente compound continued its rituals, while soldiers stood their posts, while Jimmy played house with Kim and pretended his wife hadn't been thrown into the Atlantic like cargo.

As she spoke, Olga placed a plane ticket and a stack of documents on the bedside table. The movement was deliberate, each item set down with the quiet authority of a woman who had spent those ten days not grieving but building. "I got everything you asked for. I've seen how much you've given up for Jimmy all these years. The stocks and cash in there are my personal compensation to you."

Dorothea lifted her heavily bandaged hands, trembling as she picked up the ticket and documents. Her fingers could barely close around the paper. The bandages were thick, layered, professional. Beneath them, she could feel the pins holding her bones in place. She turned the pages slowly, reading each one.

When she reached the last page, she froze. "Mom… why is there an acceptance letter from the London Symphony Orchestra in here?"

"That's part of it too." Olga's voice was steady, factual, the tone she used when presenting a plan that was already in motion and did not require approval. "And don't worry about your hands. While you were unconscious, I brought in the best orthopedic specialists to treat you, and I made sure there won't be any lasting damage."

Dorothea stared at the letter. The London Symphony Orchestra. A world away from the compound, from the soldiers at the gate, from the room beneath the house where she had listened to things crawling across the floor in the dark. London was Salfelder territory. The Valente name carried less weight there. That was the point.

"Also," Olga continued, and her voice dropped half a register, "Jimmy may be a fool, but I can't let the Family be played for fools by a woman like Kim. Here's the evidence you wanted. Kim was the one who spread the pollen on her own daughter and framed you for it."

As she said that, Olga handed Dorothea a flash drive. Small. Black. The kind of object that, in the world of the Valente Family, could end a life more efficiently than a bullet. Evidence. Proof. The currency that mattered most when the courts you answered to had no judges.

Only at that moment did a tear finally slip from the corner of Dorothea's eye.

It traced a slow line down her cheek, and she did not wipe it away. She had not cried when Kim slammed the piano lid on her hands. She had not cried when they threw her into the sea. She had not cried during the three days in the punishment room with the insects and the dark. But now, holding a flash drive and a plane ticket and an acceptance letter from an orchestra three thousand miles from this life, she cried. One tear. Then a second.

A bright smile slowly appeared across her face.

Olga watched her. The Matriarch's expression did not soften, exactly. But something in the set of her jaw eased, the way a general's posture changes when the extraction plan holds.

"Dorothea, the car is ready. Today they're officially registering Chrisette under the Valente name at the christening, and Jimmy's distracted right now. This is your best chance to leave."

Dorothea nodded. She clutched the plane ticket and acceptance letter tightly as she got out of the hospital bed, her bandaged hands shaking with the effort. Every movement cost her. The pins in her fingers sent bright, sharp signals up her arms. But she stood. She walked. She got into the car.

A black sedan with tinted windows. No Valente plates. The driver was one of Olga's people, not Jimmy's. The distinction mattered. In this family, the car that carried you determined whether you arrived at your destination or disappeared on the way.

Thinking about everything Kim had done to her, and about all the humiliation and suffering she had endured over the past month, Dorothea felt hatred surge through her chest. It was clean, that hatred. Clarifying. It burned away the fog of pain and medication and replaced it with something precise and cold.

In the car, she hacked into the yacht's surveillance system and clipped the footage of Kim maliciously slamming the piano lid onto her hands. The bandages made the work agonizing. Each keystroke was a negotiation with broken bones. But she did it. She bundled that together with the earlier footage proving Kim had spread the pollen on Chrisette herself and sent everything to her closest lawyer friend, a woman outside the Family's retained counsel, someone who owed nothing to the Valente name.

"It's been a while. I need a favor. I want to officially retain you as my attorney and have you sue Kim for aggravated assault and child abuse. I'm on my way to the airport right now. Meet me at departures in thirty minutes."

Her voice was steady. The voice of a woman who had made her decision and would not be moved from it. As she spoke, she quickly wrote out a power of attorney, signed it with bandaged hands that screamed at every stroke of the pen, then used her lipstick like sealing ink and pressed her fingerprint onto the document. The print was smudged at the edges. It didn't matter. It was enough.

She made it to the airport smoothly. The Valente name opened no doors here because no one knew to look for her. She was not Dorothea Valente at this terminal. She was a woman with bandaged hands and a one-way ticket and the kind of calm that only comes after you've already survived the worst thing that can happen to you.

After handing the signed authorization over to her lawyer friend, she boarded her flight.

The plane taxied, lifted off the runway, and soared into the blue sky.

Sitting by the window, she watched as New York grew smaller and smaller beneath her. The skyline. The harbor. Somewhere down there, the Valente compound sat behind its iron gates, and Jimmy Valente was standing in a church holding another woman's child, accepting congratulations from men who feared him, never knowing that the woman he had thrown into the sea was thirty thousand feet above him and climbing.

For the first time, she felt completely at ease.

Her left hand drifted to cover her right knuckles, the shattered ones, but this time the gesture was not fear. It was a promise. She would rebuild what he had broken. She would play again. And when she did, the sound would carry farther than anything the Valente name had ever reached.

Her red lips slowly curved into a smile as she said softly,

"Jimmy. Kim. Welcome to the abyss."