The Jilted Bride Marries The Ruthless Capo

I was three days away from marrying the Underboss of the Fazio crime family when I unlocked his burner phone.

The screen glowed toxic bright in the dark next to my sleeping fiancé.

A message from a contact saved as 'Little Trouble' read: "She is just a statue, Dante. Come back to bed."

Attached was a photo of a woman lying in the sheets of his private office, wearing his shirt.

My heart didn't break; it simply stopped.

For eight years, I believed Dante was the hero who pulled me from a burning opera house. I played the perfect, loyal Mafia Princess for him.

But heroes don't give their mistresses rare pink diamonds while giving their fiancées cubic zirconia replicas.

He didn't just cheat. He humiliated me.

He defended his mistress over his own soldiers in public. He even abandoned me on the side of the road on my birthday because she faked a pregnancy emergency.

He thought I was weak. He thought I would accept the fake ring and the disrespect because I was just a political pawn.

He was wrong.

I didn't cry. Tears are for women who have options. I had a strategy.

I walked into the bathroom and dialed a number I hadn't dared to call in a decade.

"Speak," a voice like gravel growled on the other end.

Lorenzo Moretti. The Capo of the rival family. The man my father called the Devil.

"The wedding is off," I whispered, staring at my reflection.

"I want an alliance with you, Enzo. And I want the Fazio family burned to the ground."

Chapter 1

I was three days away from marrying the Underboss of the Fazio crime family when I unlocked his burner phone and read the message that shattered eight years of loyalty.

The screen glowed toxic bright in the darkness of our shared penthouse bedroom.

Dante was asleep beside me. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that used to comfort me. Now, it just looked like the breathing of a liar.

I looked down at the device in my hand.

The contact was saved as 'Little Trouble.'

The latest message read: I miss your hands on me. She is just a statue, Dante. You said it yourself. Come back to bed.

Attached was a photo.

It was a selfie of a woman lying in sheets I recognized. They were the Egyptian cotton sheets from Dante's private office suite downtown. She was wearing his shirt.

My heart did not break. It simply stopped.

For eight years, I had played the part of the perfect Mafia Princess. I was Elena Vitiello. I was raised to be seen and not heard, to be the glue in a political alliance that would keep the peace in New York.

I had convinced myself I loved Dante Fazio. I thought he was the hero who pulled me from the burning rubble of the Opera House when I was fourteen.

I looked at his sleeping face. He was handsome in a way that made women stupid. He had the jawline of a movie star and the soul of a coward.