Too Late My Mafia Heir Ex

My fiancé of seven years, the heir to a mafia dynasty, claimed amnesia three weeks before our wedding, forgetting only me. Then I overheard him laughing on a video call, calling it the perfect "hall pass" to sleep with an influencer before he was tied down.

He flaunted his affair, abandoned me with a broken arm after a staged car crash to save her from a scratch, and planned to leave me homeless. He called me his "property," a doll he could play with and put back on the shelf when he was done.

He thought I’d be waiting for his "miraculous recovery." Instead, I disappeared, leaving behind his ring and a simple note: "I remember everything. Me too."

Chapter 1

Ava POV:

The man I’ve loved for seven years claims to have amnesia, forgetting only me—until I hear him on a video call, laughing about how it’s the perfect hall pass to fuck an influencer before our wedding.

My fingers trace the delicate lace of the veil spread across our bed. It’s part of a wedding ensemble that costs more than my first car. A symbol. Not of love, but of a seven-year political engagement meant to unite two of the city's most powerful families. A perfect union. A perfect life.

Except Ethan Reed, my fiancé and the heir to the Reed family dynasty, doesn’t remember any of it. He says he doesn’t.

Three weeks ago, he took a minor head injury. A fall during a sparring session, his Underboss, Leo, told me with a straight face. It supposedly wiped his memory. Selectively. He remembered his name, his family, his role as the Don-in-waiting. He just didn’t remember me.

I’d spent every day since trying to piece him back together. Our penthouse apartment has become a museum of our love, or what I thought was our love. Photos line the walls. I play the obscure indie song that was supposed to be our first dance on a loop, hoping a single note might unlock something inside him.

“It’s catchy,” was all he’d said yesterday, his eyes distant, cold.

I refused to give up. The families were counting on this. I was counting on this. This union wasn't just a marriage; it was a treaty. A way to end a silent war before it began.

My best friend and lawyer, Maya Rodriguez—my own personal Consigliere—had warned me. “This stinks, Ava. A head injury that only erases his fiancée? It sounds like a plot from a bad soap opera, not a medical diagnosis.”

I’d brushed her off. I had to. Hope was all I had left.

Tonight, looking for an old photo album in his home office, I find the door slightly ajar. His laptop is open on the desk, a video call still active. And then I hear it. A sound I haven’t heard in weeks.