No Roses for the Mafia Wife

Alexander didn’t come back that night. Or the next.

I used the silence to dismantle my life.

First, Rossi Holdings—the "legitimate" front where I’d worked as Alexander’s financial liaison for five years. My resignation letter was two lines:

"Effective immediately. Personal reasons."

No explanation. They didn’t deserve one.

My assistant, Sofia, showed me his encrypted feed. There was Alexander, smiling beside Isabella in Napa vineyards, the California sun gilding them both.

"Happiness tastes better shared", he’d captioned it.

He’d blocked me from seeing it. Of course he had.

I met friends in safehouse cafés. They already knew.

"We recognized her Conti ring in the photo," Lena whispered. "The emerald one her father gave her when she turned eighteen. He’s not even hiding it well."

"He doesn’t think I’m worth hiding it from," I said flatly.

"What will you do?" Gabriella asked.

I stirred my coffee. "I’m leaving. But I need favors."

I outlined the plan quietly. By the time I left, each had a task: exit routes, secure channels, timing.

When I returned to Harborview, Alexander was there.

He sat on our—‘my’—bed, typing furiously. He didn’t look up when I entered.

I booted my laptop, transferring surveillance files. The progress bar crawled across the screen.

Halfway through, Alexander spoke, eyes still on his phone.

"The house feels empty."

I didn’t reply.

He stood, surveying the room. I’d removed all wedding planning traces. All that remained was a countdown calendar.

[14 DAYS TO FREEDOM]—it now read.

He didn’t notice.

"Did you cancel the florist?" he asked, distracted as his phone buzzed. Isabella’s name flashed.

His expression softened at her name. That tiny change broke something final in me.

He stood, brushing a dry kiss on my forehead—like petting a dog on his way out.

"Sorry I’ve been busy, ‘amore’," he said, the Italian endearment foreign on his lips. "Once this wedding is over, I’ll make it up to you. I promise."

He’d never called me "amore" before. The word felt borrowed, something he’d practiced with her.

Then he was gone.

I walked to the bathroom and scrubbed hard where his lips had touched.

The next morning, I met with a forger in Queens. New passport, new license. "Elena Marino," he suggested. "Common enough. Hard to trace."

I closed accounts, moved assets through shell companies my mother had set up years ago—her contingency plan. "Every woman in this life needs an escape route, Joanna. Even if she never uses it."

Now I was using it.

Each day, the wedding drew closer. Each day, I prepared to vanish.