When A Mafia Heir Broke My Heart

When A Mafia Heir Broke My Heart

Gavin

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The custom-designed logo I created for Dante Mancini's new company, a gift for my twenty-second birthday and the supposed start of our life together, slipped from my fingers the moment I heard him tell his consigliere he was faking an engagement to get rid of me. It landed with a soft thud on the plush carpet outside the private room, the sound swallowed by the low thrum of music from the club. My world went silent.

Chapter 1 Chapter 1

The custom-designed logo I created for Dante Mancini's new company, a gift for my twenty-second birthday and the supposed start of our life together, slipped from my fingers the moment I heard him tell his consigliere he was faking an engagement to get rid of me.

It landed with a soft thud on the plush carpet outside the private room, the sound swallowed by the low thrum of music from the club. My world went silent.

Chapter 1

Seraphina POV:

I had loved Dante "The Shadow" Mancini since I was fifteen.

He was the heir to the Mancini crime family, and I was the daughter of his father's most trusted Capo, Leo Moretti. In our world, he was my Don, my destiny.

I saw it confirmed when I was sixteen, at a Mancini charity gala. A piece of scaffolding, heavy and lethal, broke loose above me. Dante moved like lightning, a blur of expensive wool and raw power.

He yanked me back, his grip like iron on my arm, just as the metal crashed where I had been standing.

He didn't say anything. He just looked down at me, his dark eyes assessing, before he tossed a silver coin into my trembling hands. It was stamped with the Mancini crest. A silent, possessive claim. My guardian. I kept that coin with me always, a sacred link to our shared future.

On my eighteenth birthday, filled with champagne and foolish courage, I confessed everything. I kissed him. He'd seemed more bored than anything else, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "When you're twenty-two and done with school," he'd said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me, "if you still have this... loyalty... maybe I'll consider tying our fates together."

A Don's command.

I took his careless words as a holy vow, a promise of an arranged marriage that would bind our families. I built my entire life around it. I went to Pratt Institute in New York, closer to the heart of his empire. For four years, I perfected my craft, waiting.

Tonight was my twenty-second birthday. The culmination of everything. I'd designed the perfect logo for his new legitimate front, a sleek, modern emblem that was both beautiful and intimidating. It was my soul on paper, a testament to my devotion. A gift to seal our family bond.

Now, standing outside his private room, I heard the truth.

"She's a nuisance, Vito," Dante's voice was laced with irritation. "This obsessive loyalty is a liability."

"So, what's the plan, Don?" Vito, his consigliere, asked.

"Isabella is ambitious. She'll play her part. We'll announce an engagement. A baby. That should be enough to scare the little Moretti girl away for good. She's too... pure for this. It's for her own good."

A woman laughed, a throaty, confident sound. Isabella Rossi. An outsider, a social climber. "Don't worry, Dante. I'll make it very convincing."

My breath caught in my throat, a painful, sharp thing. The logo, my offering, lay forgotten at my feet. The silver coin in my pocket suddenly felt cold as ice.

I turned and walked away. I didn't run. My movements felt disconnected, like I was watching someone else. I pushed through the heavy doors of the club and out into the New York rain. It was cold, and it soaked through my dress in seconds, but I didn't feel it.

My phone buzzed in my purse. Dante. Then my brother, Leo. I silenced it, shoving it deep into my bag.

He didn't want my loyalty. He wanted to cut me out. So I would. I would sever the tie myself.

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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