My Ruthless Mafia Ex-Husband Begs For Mercy

the New York Syndicate. I thought my love could bridge th

pen his unlocked

s, desperate texts, and sweet voice notes to a dark web group chat

my naked body

starving animal," and told his men I was j

s joked about my whimpers. Pietro bragged to them that s

m with the evidence,

terical. A Don doesn't have ti

d be dead to his world, dismissing my abs

marriage was nothing but a spectator sport for his ent

and I didn't b

amning screenshot to a secure drive, and calml

burn his empire

pte

nna

his fingernails, his private tablet cast a pale light across the bedsheets-a signal that

tion from another woman, a query that would un

rror in the five boroughs, had replied that with

dawn, my future would be an endless, echoing corridor of polite ridicule, a li

. He commanded an empire of long shadows and whispered al

two million dollars, a sum meant to

acid and legitimate facade for a life defined by the blood

harity fo

l presence: submissive, low-ma

I

or him was a f

love could be the bridge across the chasm separa

hower ceased in t

secondary tablet, the cold light illuminating the ragged, bitten

highly secure device, reserve

he phone before hurling the tablet onto the bed. He had forgotten to close his secure

led in my gut, and my hand moved of

eft it u

at the top of the display-an

igh-ranking Associate and Pietro's confidan

r official

t her name, and the cha

lungs seemed t

m only hours before-a small, sweet thing abou

n caption: "She reports every patheti

ous, a barb about my lack o

llowed: "Her mind is

, scrolled upward, revealing a selfie I had sent him the week p

to make him smile d

too, with the caption:

t Zoya had pose

delivered the line ab

om door cl

e, panicked motion, setting the devi

rged from

his skin, his form like something

aist, his wet skin a shock of cold against my silk sleepwear.

lating tonig

not an inquiry;

from his touch, a reflexive

of my robe and steppe

my voice a carefully constructed monoton

low grunt and wal

he dark sheets and

gid effigy, listening to the steady cadence of his brea

e wall read one

tablet from un

alled The Don's Canary Diary was waiting-its archives stretching back to before our wedding day, its content more deva