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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On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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