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Too Late, Mafia Don: I Am Free

Too Late, Mafia Don: I Am Free

Author: Lorraine
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Chapter 1 

Word Count: 1436    |    Released on: Today at 18:58

rospects to build a flawless legitimate business empire for my

er to secure his seat as Don, a fligh

l mafia summit in Sicily-for himself and Lyla, the g

, he didn't explain. Instead, he c

our arranged marriage as a leas

victim, and Domenico immediately wrap

ld, vacant eyes and iss

w your place, or you will

agerly for me to crawl back and

ogant man I had sac

thm for him alone, simply went still. The great, heavy anc

shed a si

trial shredder, and fed every single page o

watching his future turn to confetti.

pte

nna

kets he had purchased days earlier materialized on the screen of the phone he had left on my desk. My eyes fixed on the illuminated text, my mind not so much racing

mafia summit in Sicily-booked for him and the gir

t, the Capos would find his grasp on the legitim

rtering my own prospects to burnish the flawless

hands were stained with a violence I had tried to ignore

dread, slow and creeping as winte

oom swung inward. Domenico entered, his suit the colour

ll silent at once, their bodies shifting to

eve tapping against the face of his gold watch

a broken betrothal, his usual guillotine, was held over my head. It was his favorite weapon. He used the

t his cold, a

ith Lyla, and the intricate mechanism o

him alone, went still. The great, heavy anchor of my loyalty to this toxic m

est cool against my fingertips. Within its covers lay t

rd line of his jaw, where a muscle jumped. The filte

id. "Let us break t

ut a harsh, di

observe a child in the midst of a

" he said, already turning away as if t

oor, a sound that cut sharply through th

sed the room to the industrial shredder i

e through the dead air of the classro

asted years in my hands. A new pulse, a rhythm of rebellion, hammered in my ears. Then, I fed every single page of hi

bled classmates, followed by a frantic rustle of wh

been dismissive moments before, widened as the reality of my action settled into him. "You a

her eyes widening in a theatrical display of horr

o her mouth, a flawless panto

ion of manufactured concern. "Sienna, why

lens of my devotion had shattered, and her mani

over, Lyla. I am no

nal space, his towering frame

, his voice a lethal whisper. "Y

I told him. "I owe neit

and on his chest, a paint

round her waist, comforting her with a

, and his eyes were

was my last chance to apologize and know my

" I told him,

e knuckles had gone white. I listened to the whine of the motor dying down before my first s

k, Domenico took Lyla

at a luxury villa to his private feed,

flooded the comments, mockin

ed entirely sil

the rest of the syndicate classmates waited eager

ced the device face down on the desk, and in that small, quiet action, I embraced the profound, untouchable peace of my new

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Too Late, Mafia Don: I Am Free
Too Late, Mafia Don: I Am Free
“For three years, I surrendered my nights and bartered my own prospects to build a flawless legitimate business empire for my fiancé, Domenico, the most feared heir in the mafia syndicate. But as I was finishing the final ledger to secure his seat as Don, a flight confirmation popped up on his phone. He had booked two first-class tickets to a high-level mafia summit in Sicily-for himself and Lyla, the girl who had been actively trying to destroy my life. When Domenico walked into the room, he didn't explain. Instead, he complained I was working too slowly. He used the threat of breaking our arranged marriage as a leash, demanding I finish his work. Lyla rushed in, playing the innocent victim, and Domenico immediately wrapped a comforting arm around her waist. He looked at me with cold, vacant eyes and issued his final ultimatum. "Apologize to her, and know your place, or you will be nothing to the Family." His soldiers sneered, waiting eagerly for me to crawl back and beg for the future Don's favor. I stared at the arrogant man I had sacrificed my youth for. The dutiful beat of my heart, which had hammered out a rhythm for him alone, simply went still. The great, heavy anchor of my loyalty dissolved into a strange weightlessness. I didn't shed a single tear. I calmly stood up, walked over to the industrial shredder, and fed every single page of his commercial blueprint into the blades. "The betrothal is dead," I told him, watching his future turn to confetti. "I owe neither of you a single word."”