My Mafia Husband Cheated While I Was Pregnant

It rang once.

Then a voice I hadn't heard in too long answered, velvet and lethal. "Well, well. Look who finally crawled back. To what do I owe the pleasure, bella mia?"

"I'll marry you," I whispered, swallowing the last of my pride, "but only if you help me burn Dominic Castellano and his entire empire to the fucking ground."

There was a pause. Then a low chuckle. "Ah, revenge and a wedding. My two favorite things. When should I pick you up?"

"Six days," I said. "I've got some ghosts to bury first."

I hung up, tossed the phone on the bed, and looked in the mirror. The woman staring back at me wasn't broken. She was just getting started.

And Dominic? He taught me everything I needed to know to end him.

Dominic didn't come home that night.

I didn't sleep. I couldn't.

The pain from the surgery throbbed like a slow, cruel heartbeat. My womb was gone. My baby was gone. And I couldn't stop crying, no matter how hard I bit my tongue or screamed into the sheets.

But by sunrise, the tears had dried. So had my heart. I lay there like stone while the doctor came in for vitals, clipboard in hand like he wasn't part of the crime. The Family kept their own physicians on retainer, men who knew how to treat gunshot wounds, set broken bones, and keep their mouths shut. This one had the same dead calm as the rest of them.

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Castellano?"

I stared at the ceiling. "Can I leave now?"

He blinked, surprised. "I, uh, I'll sort out the discharge."

I didn't need rest. I didn't need sympathy. I needed revenge. Then I called a consigliere I found through a burner number, one who operated outside any Family's jurisdiction.

"I'd like to file for a divorce," I said, no emotion.

"Understood. I'll send the digital forms. You'll get the official papers in three days."

I hung up.

A few minutes later, the doctor came back, this time with Dominic's driver.

"Mr. Castellano asked me to bring you home, ma'am," the driver said, awkwardly avoiding my gaze. The holster beneath his jacket shifted as he moved. "He's cooking your favorite meal."

I almost laughed. That bastard didn't even know what I liked.

Still, I nodded. "Sure. Let's go."

The compound was just as I left it. Cold, spotless, soulless. Not a single frame out of place, not a speck of dust to suggest anything had ever truly lived here. The iron gate had swung open for us without a word from the guardhouse, and the gravel drive curved past hedgerows trimmed with military precision. But it was the scene in the living room that stopped me dead.

Valentina.

Reclined like a queen on my couch, in a blood-red designer dress that clung to her baby bump. Her manicured fingers curled around a glass of wine, legs crossed like she owned the place. One hand rested flat against her stomach, the gesture so practiced it looked almost sacred.

And beside her, preening and fussing over her shoulder like a proud mother hen, was my mother-in-law: the same woman who once told me I should be grateful her son "lowered himself" to marry an orphan with "no breeding."

My hand drifted to the hollow of my throat before I could stop it. My body froze.

Valentina looked up with a sugar-sweet smile.

"Oh, you're finally here, Sofia..."

Ginevra's voice cracked through the air like a whip. She adjusted the strand of pearls at her throat. "Why is she even here? She has no place in this family. She's a nobody. I never understood why my son didn't throw her barren ass out years ago."

I clenched my fists until my nails broke skin. But I didn't answer. I had heard worse. From worse.

I turned for the stairs.

I was halfway up when the sharp pain shot through my scalp.

"AH—!"

My head snapped back as she yanked my hair viciously. I stumbled, nearly falling. Then came the slap. Sharp, ringing, the ring on her hand slicing across my cheek like a blade. The Castellano family crest, set in heavy gold, left its mark the way everything in this house did.

"Ungrateful bitch," she snarled. "Can't even say hello? You forget your manners while you aborted your bastard child?"

My vision blurred but not with tears. With rage.

I slowly turned, blood dripping from my cheek, and looked her dead in the eye.

"Why don't you ask your son?" I said, my voice low, shaking. "Ask Dominic why my daughter died!"

The room froze. Valentina's smile faltered. Her hand pressed harder against her stomach. Ginevra's eyes narrowed, uncertain.

"Ask him," I said, louder now, "while he was busy watching a concert with his mistress. While he was kissing her in public. While he was ordering men to kill my baby girl, for her."

Valentina went pale. Ginevra blinked, lips parting ever so slightly. The silence stretched. Somewhere deeper in the compound, a door closed, and footsteps paused. Even the soldiers knew when to stop moving.

Then the hand came again. This one cracked across my face like thunder.

"Stop accusing my son for your incompetence," she spat. "You couldn't even protect your own child. You were never fit to be a mother."

I staggered back.

And then—

"Enough, Ma."

Dominic's voice cut through the venom.

He stepped into the room wearing an apron, wiping his hands like a man who'd been prepping dinner instead of orchestrating bloodshed. A wooden spoon dangled casually from his fingers. The acting Boss of the Castellano Family, standing in the kitchen doorway like a Sunday father from a world that didn't exist.

"Leave my wife alone," he said.

He turned to me, reaching for my face like nothing had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Like I hadn't learned what he'd done.

"How are you feeling, babe?"

I jerked back like his touch burned. The man who used to feel like home now smelled like poison.

"Sofia," he said sternly. "Apologize. To my mother. And to Valentina. What kind of manners are those?"

I let out a laugh, dry and bitter as smoke.

"What are they doing here?"

"She always talks to you like that?" his mother snapped.

Valentina gave a sigh, ever the martyr.

"I should go. I don't want to be the reason you two fight."

That's when I heard the little voice.

"Daddy? Why is that lady yelling?"

I turned slowly toward the hallway and saw her.

A girl. Maybe four. Curly dark hair. Dominic's eyes. Dominic's dimples. My lungs collapsed inward. My legs nearly buckled.

"Who is she?" I whispered.

Dominic didn't miss a beat. "Valentina's daughter is from her late husband. She's a widow now. She's also my household coordinator, and they're moving in since the compound is too big for just the two of us. She's pregnant and she can't stay alone."

"And call you Daddy? Wow."

He shrugged. "She's just confused. She likes it. I don't want to upset her."

I just laughed. Now I saw it clearly. That child was his daughter with Valentina. But when I was pregnant with a girl, he killed her without mercy and still had the audacity to act like a saint.

He walked toward the dining table, uncovering a steaming bowl of seafood.

"I made your favorite."

The scent hit me like a wave of poison. Shellfish. I was allergic. Deathly. Five years of marriage, and he didn't remember.

Or maybe he did.

My stomach twisted. I doubled over and vomited right there on the marble floor.

Valentina recoiled. "Oh my God, Sofia," she gasped, her hand flying to her stomach. "You could've just said you wanted me gone. Did you really have to vomit on me and my daughter?"