Married to the Mafia Heir Then His Ex Tried to Blow Up Our Wedding

Luca's question died in his throat, strangled by the frost in my voice. The moment the black sedan rolled to a stop before the apartment tower—his tower, never mine—I ended the call without ceremony.

The night air carried the scent of coming rain as I stepped onto the pavement. My phone buzzed incessantly, the Family's internal network flooding with notifications. I opened the thread to find over ninety-nine unread messages, all spawned from a single photograph Celina Vitale had posted at the top.

The image showed Luca Haskins on his knees, sleeves rolled to his elbows, repairing electrical wiring and plumbing in what appeared to be her modest quarters.

"Who else has a Boss this generous with his time?" she had written beneath it. "I'd pledge my life to this Family. Can I take a blood oath right now?"

The comments cascaded beneath her post like offerings at a shrine—envy dressed as admiration.

"I've never seen the Boss lower himself like this. Doesn't the staff say he won't touch anything beneath his station? This doesn't look like a man with standards."

"Madonna mia, he's devastating without the suit jacket. From this moment forward, I dream of becoming Mrs. Haskins. Everyone else—hands off."

"The woman posting this picture is already auditioning for that role. Wake up, sister. Your only future is running errands."

Before Celina had arrived to serve as Luca's personal courier, I had been the one performing every task he required—fetching, organizing, anticipating his needs without ever asking for recognition. When she took over my duties, I had simply forgotten to remove myself from the network thread. Now, having read every sycophantic reply, I deleted the conversation from my device and closed the application entirely.

If I had already decided to sever the thread binding me to this life, watching their "preview of domestic bliss" carried less sting than I had anticipated.

My mind drifted to those early days, fresh from university, when I had first entered his orbit.

Luca used to share glimpses of me in the group chat—candid photographs of me preparing his espresso, updating his calendar, arranging the details of his days. Everyone in the organization could see it plainly: he had marked me as his.

With his attention wrapped around me like armor, even the tedious work felt honeyed. His small intimacies transformed the cold machinery of Family business into something almost tender.

But everything shifted when Celina appeared.

She absorbed every responsibility that had once been mine. Luca forbade anyone from mentioning my name in the threads. His gaze, once reserved for me alone, began to drift toward her—sometimes openly, sometimes with the careful discretion of a man who knew he was being watched.

One of my former associates, a woman who had been close to me, made the mistake of remarking that Celina lacked my competence. Luca stripped her of an entire year's tribute share without hesitation. Afterward, I quietly arranged for her transfer to another crew's territory.

She had pressed ten thousand dollars into my palm before leaving, hoping the gesture might prevent her from doing something reckless—like walking away entirely.

Now, returning to this place I had called home for eight years yet never truly belonged to, I began gathering my possessions. My hands paused over a thick leather album, its spine cracked from years of handling. Inside lay the collected memories of a decade.

I sat on the edge of the bed and opened it, turning each page with deliberate slowness.

Every photograph represented a gift from Luca. Eight years ago, he had told me that before we stood together and sealed our union, he would give me 9,999 surprises. He wanted to earn my heart through sincerity, he said, so that I would choose to become his wife of my own will. This custom-made album had been designed to hold exactly 9,999 images.

Only one page remained empty.

In the end, none of it had meant anything at all.

I carried the album downstairs and walked to a quiet clearing behind the building, where the shadows pooled thick and the city's noise faded to a distant murmur. I struck a match.

I watched each photograph curl and blacken, the flames consuming eight years of carefully preserved moments. The fire devoured everything—the smiles, the promises, the carefully staged scenes of devotion—until only ash remained. I was burying the woman I had been.

Luca arrived to find me standing before the blaze, my face illuminated by dying embers. His complexion drained of color.

He rushed forward, shoving me aside with enough force to send me stumbling, his hands plunging toward the flames in a desperate attempt to salvage something—anything. But the fire burned too hot, too hungry. Within seconds, his palms were scorched raw and red.

Rage contorted his features. He stamped down on the burning album with his polished shoes, trying to smother the flames that consumed what remained of us.

"What the hell are you doing?" he roared, his voice cracking with fury and something that might have been grief. "Have you lost your mind? All of these memories—destroyed because of you!"