Zero Score: My Escape from the Mafia Don

Elara POV:

The next morning, I met with a lawyer. His office was a cramped, windowless room with no name on the door, and the man himself looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. For a divorce, taking on the Moretti Family wasn't just a bad career move; it was professional suicide.

"I want you to draft a divorce petition," I said, my voice even. "And a non-disclosure agreement. I want nothing from him. I just want to be free."

He swallowed hard. "Mrs. Moretti, are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything."

I left his office and drove to the hospital. The soup I'd had the cook prepare felt heavy in my hands, a useless offering. Dante's private suite was guarded by two of his most loyal men. They nodded at me, their faces grim, and let me pass.

The scene inside stole the air from my lungs.

Isabella was perched on the edge of his bed, fussing with the bandages on his arm. She was clumsy, making him wince.

"Oh, Dante, I'm so sorry," she cried, plump tears tracing paths down her perfect cheeks. "Does it hurt terribly?"

"It's nothing," he soothed, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it. He caught her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles.

"The doctor said..." she sniffled, "he said the burns are deep. You might have permanent nerve damage. A weakness a Don can't afford to show."

"It doesn't matter," Dante said, his eyes locked on her. "I was already planning to step back from public operations. It has nothing to do with the fire." He paused, his gaze turning distant. "There was this legitimate business I wanted to start, years ago. An architectural firm. You once said you admired a man who ran one. I thought... I thought you remembered."

Isabella's breath hitched. She fell into his arms, burying her face in his uninjured shoulder. "Oh, Dante."

He held her, his good arm wrapping around her, holding her tight. For a moment, he closed his eyes, a look of profound, agonizing peace on his face.

The soup container slipped from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor. Neither of them so much as flinched.

I backed away-a ghost in my own marriage-and slipped out of the room unseen.

At the hospital entrance, a group of Dante's most trusted Soldiers stopped me. They looked grave.

"Mrs. Moretti," the one in charge said, his voice low and formal. He handed me a sealed manila envelope. "The Don had standing orders. In the event he was... incapacitated, this was to be delivered to you. Immediately."

"Of course," I murmured.

I waited until I was back in my car to open it. It was a detailed strategic plan, a complete restructuring of the Moretti empire. It outlined a shift toward legitimate businesses, with a new, massive investment in a high-end architectural design and construction firm. It was brilliant, ruthless, and visionary.

And it was all contingent on one thing.

I read the final line of the executive summary, the words blurring through my tears.

"With the return of my true north, the final phase of the Moretti revitalization can now commence."

His true north. Isabella.

I finally understood. His empire, his ambition, his entire world was built for her.

I had never even been on the map.