My Ruthless Mafia Ex-Husband Begs For Mercy

Sienna POV

The cavernous living room swallowed the sound of my bare feet as I crept out of the bedroom.

The hardwood floor bit into my legs; resting my back against the wall, I opened the encrypted chat once more.

For the next few minutes, the glowing screen was the only light source as the timeline reversed to the very beginning.

The time-stamped messages ticked backward like a reversing clock, past our wedding day, past our engagement, settling on a date a year and a half prior.

It had started before we even took our vows.

During a violent turf war, I had sent him texts checking in on his safety.

He had forwarded them to Zoya, calling me dull.

Zoya commented that I was good for a legitimate marriage because I was low maintenance.

Pietro had replied with two words: "Stable cover."

I kept scrolling until I found our wedding photos.

It was the day I believed I had become his Queen.

Pietro had sent the pictures to Zoya, mocking my radiant smile.

He told her the photographers had worked miracles to make me look the part.

Zoya sneered, asking why he chose someone so plain.

"I needed a clean background during the restructuring," he wrote. "She was little more than a tax-exempt code on my public ledger."

A fresh wave of nausea rose, so sharp and acidic I had to press my palm to my mouth to stifle a dry, retching sound.

I opened the media attachments folder, my vision swimming through a film of hot tears.

My most private, vulnerable boudoir photos were right there on the screen.

They were meant only for my husband's eyes.

Zoya had commented on my body.

Pietro had replied that I lacked the fire of a woman born to their world.

The tablet's volume and power buttons felt impossibly heavy. I had to brace my right hand against the hard edge of a side table, using my left to steady my wrist, just to force my thumb and forefinger to press the screenshot combination.

I transferred the evidence to a secure offshore cloud drive.

It took three hours, each minute a fresh torment, to archive the proof. Every screenshot was a testament to my own foolishness; concessions I had once mistaken for romance now felt like slaps across the face, the heat of them burning at my ears.

At four in the morning, I returned to the bedroom.

I slid the tablet back under his pillow.

Pietro stirred in his sleep.

His heavy arm reached out and found my waist.

"Why aren't you asleep, Sienna?"

His gruff voice broke the silence of the dark room.

I stared at his shadowed, ruthless face.

"I am just waiting for the sun to come up."

Because when it did, I would no longer be his wife in anything but name. The drive in my pocket held enough ruin to bury a Don, and the woman who had worshipped Pietro Vitiello for six years had died in the blue light of his tablet screen, suffocated by the truth of what he really thought of her.