The Don's Wife Is His Executioner

ia

ocked himself away, my phone

number. A cold flutter of intuitio

, saccharine voice chirped fr

pt my breathing perfectly eve

innocence and raw arrogance. "Dante assured me you were a good, obedient

g her dig her own grave w

breezily. "Dante only stays with you out of a sense of du

to scream or cry. The silen

ovide a handsome severance package.

n my forearm contract into a series of fine, tight spasms. Instead of

not leave?" I

my ultimate trump card. You have been barren for four years. I have b

before I c

of notifications. Sofia was sending me dozens of

Dante in a tangle of bedsheets. Dante escorting her past velvet ropes into VIP b

. His arm was wrapped around her waist, his Fami

phone dow

eacup and took a slow, mea

e cup down agains

jagged pieces, the report of

ng a sudden, blinding rage that burned a

upon the Persian rug like a squall of cheap hail. The heavy oak fruit bowl overturned, its contents rolling in lazy arcs across the floorboards. I did not stop until the f

ps pounded do

ing in sharp, deep breaths. He surveyed the wreckage of

woke the screen with a tap of my thum

d to a razor's edge. The screen was lit, fro

I asked. My voice did not sha

t a long, exhausted sigh, as if my d

ow the rules," he said, rubbing hi

ough my veins, extinguishing the fire

hoes crunching over broke

n the Russians ambushed us three years

o Family because I was your wife. I lost our child on

uine pain crossing his stoic f

for that loss," I reminded him, my w

g and pulled out a f

m onto the only unbroken table in

forward and re

d by my underworld contacts. It bore a flawless forgery of

ack dots, as the architecture of

rumble that seemed to originate not from his thr

ame man who had once shattered another's skull with a

es of our world," I repli