The Abused Wife Is A Mafia Heiress

My mother sacrificed her youth, her secret Mafia Princess status, and her entire fortune to help my father rise to the rank of Capo.

But in return, he flaunted his pregnant mistress and declared her unborn baby as his only true heir.

When the mistress faked an assault and a miscarriage, my father blamed my mother without a second thought.

He ordered his enforcers to drag her into a dark room, commanding them to violate her just like his rivals had done to her years ago.

To escape the brutal humiliation, my mother jumped out of the second-floor window, her blood pooling on the cold concrete.

My father looked down at her shattered body with utter disgust, claiming she was just playing dead to scare him.

He didn't know that the mistress had framed her, and he didn't know the lost baby was never his.

He also didn't know that my mother was not a helpless orphan, but the missing heir to the most powerful Syndicate in the country.

Just as he slapped me across the face and demanded I kneel to his mistress, a fleet of armored SUVs slammed to a halt at the gates.

The terrifying Don Rossi stepped out, staring at the blood on the ground and the red mark on my cheek.

"We have been searching for our daughter for six years," the Don said, his voice like ice. "And I swear a brutal Vendetta against you."

Chapter 1

I watched my mother sift a fine white powder into the inseam of my father's linen boxers, knowing that if the most feared Capo in the Syndicate caught her at this work, we'd both end up in the river before supper.

The burner phone he kept for his mistress vibrated against the marble countertop—a low, insistent hum that told me the timer on my mother's silent war had finally run out.

My father commanded an army of killers. When he entered the bedchamber, his shadow fell long before he crossed the threshold. Vincent Moretti radiated the kind of dangerous charm that made men lower their eyes and women lose their dignity.

He looked down at my mother, offering the nape of his neck so she could adjust his starched collar. Not a word of thanks. Just expectation.

His gaze shifted to me, the corners of his mouth pulling into a smile that never touched his eyes. "This is just a little game your mother and I play, Mia," he lied, his voice smooth as aged whiskey.

But I'd seen where this game ended.

I stayed in my corner, silent as furniture, watching him turn to pack his leather duffel for what he called Syndicate business. Under the pretense of checking his pocket watch, his body angled away from us. His hand darted into the drawer, swapping the dusted boxers for a clean pair in one practiced motion.

My mother caught the flicker in the reflection of the tall cheval-glass. The stillness she'd been holding together started to crack at the edges.

"Are you going to meet that divorced receptionist?" she asked, her voice a low tremor with something violent coiled beneath it.

My father swung around. The light drained from his eyes, leaving them flat and cold as river stones. He shoved her by the shoulder—one rough motion to push her away from his luggage.

"I'm attending a hot spring resort for Family business," he snapped. "Enough with your paranoid delusions, Sophia."

She didn't step back. "Are you that desperate? Sleeping with a woman who already bore another man's child?"

Each word landed with deliberate, chilling precision.

The air turned to ice as he closed the distance between them, his frame swallowing the light from the window.

"At least her kid is actually hers," he spat. "Not like Mia. She's nothing but the bastard spawn of some rival's hit."

My mother froze completely. Her hand, resting near her collarbone, hung suspended in the air. The tips of her fingers went bloodless white.

Behind my ribs, something sharp bloomed. Every breath felt like inhaling air full of crushed glass. I had to part my lips and take short, shallow gasps just to keep standing.

A flicker of awareness crossed his face. He reached out and covered my ears with his large hands.

"I lost my temper," he muttered, staring at a spot on the wall just past her shoulder. "It was nonsense. Forget it."

Through the gaps between his fingers, I watched my mother's posture collapse—as if the bones in her spine had softened to wax.

The image pulled a memory loose. Three months earlier. The locker room at that same hot spring resort. I'd seen my father's custom mafia cufflinks on the wooden bench, heard low, guttural sounds behind a closed door. When I pushed it open, a naked woman scrambled past me, and my father's face went slack with cold sweat at the sight of me.

I also remembered how he used my mother's past against her. Years ago, rival soldiers had held her for three days and three nights. He always invoked that memory to belittle her pain, to keep her leashed to his will. I'd heard her crying late at night, whispering words like "defiled" and "bastard" into the dark. So I understood—even then—the cruel rumors that clung to my bloodline.

Now, my father saw the silent tears tracing down my mother's cheeks. The rigid line of his jaw slackened for half a second.

He pulled out his phone, ready to cancel the trip.

But before he could speak, a woman's plaintive cry filtered through the speaker. Elena, insisting she'd already arrived at the resort.

His thumb silenced the call. He grabbed his luggage and walked out. The heavy oak door swung shut behind him.

My mother didn't chase him. Her body folded in on itself as she crouched down on the dark wood floor. She pulled me into her arms and held me with a grip that felt like a final anchor.

"Mommy is too tired, Mia," she whispered into my hair, her voice fraying at the edges. "I can't do this Family anymore."