Remarried To The Ruthless Mafia King

Sienna POV

The lawyer was a small, nervous man who seemed physically incapable of meeting my gaze.

He slid the papers across the mahogany surface of Luca’s study desk.

"Standard dissolution," he mumbled, his eyes darting around the room. "Asset protection clause included."

Luca stood by the window, silhouetted against the light, dressed in his finest black suit.

He wore a mask of practiced solemnity.

He was playing the part perfectly: the tragic soldier, sacrificing his own happiness for the call of duty.

"Sign here, Sienna," Luca said softly. "It is just a formality."

I picked up the pen.

The ink was black.

Permanent.

I signed my name without a flicker of hesitation.

Sienna Moretti.

No longer Vitiello.

At least, not on paper.

Luca signed next, his hand moving with a speed that betrayed him—too fast, too eager to be free.

"Done," the lawyer said, scooping up the documents as if they were burning his hands. "I will file these immediately."

The next three days were a blur of performance and deceit.

Luca played the role of the perfect son to the hilt.

He sat with Don Carlo, feigning interest in old war stories he had heard a thousand times.

He held Nonna Rosa’s hand while she stirred the Sunday gravy, acting the part of the devoted grandson.

He even played with our daughter, Mia, pushing her on the swing set in the backyard with a heavy, performative sadness.

"Daddy has to go away for work," he told her. "But I will bring you the biggest doll in the world when I come back."

Mia giggled, innocent and unaware.

She didn't know he was abandoning her.

She couldn't see what I saw: that he wasn't leaving for war. He was trading her for a life of hedonism, clubbing, and drugs. I could feel his desperation to escape the responsibility of fatherhood radiating off him like heat.

I watched from the kitchen window, feeling a cold, calcified hatred settle in my chest.

Finally, the day arrived.

Luca loaded his car with frantic energy.

He had packed two large suitcases—far too much for a tactical mission.

"Equipment," he told his father.

Don Carlo nodded, his eyes misty with misplaced pride.

"Make us proud, son," the Don said. "Serve the Commission well."

"I will, Papa."

Luca turned to his mother.

Nonna Rosa was weeping openly, clutching her rosary.

"Be safe, my boy. Call us when you land."

"I cannot call for a while," Luca said, smoothly reciting the lie. "Secure comms only. But I will write."

He turned to me last.

He leaned in, his lips grazing my cheek, cold and impersonal.

"Goodbye, Sienna," he whispered. "Play your part."

"Goodbye, Luca," I said.

I watched him slide into the driver's seat.

He revved the engine, the sound aggressive and loud.

He drove down the long driveway, past the iron gates, and turned onto the main road without a backward glance.

He didn't look back because he didn't care.

I waited until the red glow of his taillights had vanished completely.

Then, with a steady pulse, I walked into his study.

I moved the painting of the Tuscan landscape aside to reveal the wall safe.

I spun the dial.

He hadn't changed the combination.

He was arrogant to the very end.

I pulled open the heavy steel door.

It was empty.

Dust motes danced in the stale air where stacks of cash used to sit.

Three hundred thousand dollars.

Gone.

He had left his aging parents, his wife, and his child with absolutely nothing.

I closed the safe with a soft click.

I didn't cry.

I didn't scream.

Instead, I felt a strange, icy sense of calm wash over me.

He had taken the money, yes.

But in his haste to run, he had left behind something far more valuable.

He had left his seat at the table.

And I was going to take it.