His Heartless Betrayal: My Escape from the Mafia

ed mafia underboss who I believed was my savior. I lived i

as a lie. A photo proved my husband was in Paris, not for business,

uld own. He had staged the ambush where he "saved" me,

up flew toward us in a restaurant, he didn't shield me,

everyone, "In my heart, Seraphina

ct of love. It was the final piece

e went into surgery to donate his second kidney to her, I left him a box containing

pte

phin

amily. The one-hundredth was not a call, but a text that arrived with the chilling finality of a death kne

ed in fear across the five boroughs. He was a killer, a monster to the outside world, but to me, he had been a savior. He had rescued

istook for love. Our penthouse overlooked the city, a gilded

s killed in a "te

icemail. The silence was a physical w

from Chloe. "Sera, I'm so s

on a dark Parisian street, holding another woman in a despe

s the face I saw in the mirror every morni

Isabell

didn't just crac

ammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape. He walked in, hi

nt of his cologne-sandalwood and something cold-assaulted my se

meeting in Paris. The time differ

ake it up to me. To make up for my fath

alked over to his massive mahogany desk, the centerpiece of

d a report from a w

y voice a hollow echo

mewhere else, his mind on Paris, on her. He picked up his pen, barely registering the mast

is powerful signature without a second look. "Beside

n, maybe just possessiveness-in his dark eyes. "I'll c

sk. He glanced at the screen. The name flashed fo

go," he said, his tone suddenly clipped. "A Family em

eaving me alone in the agonizing silence, th

I walked deeper into his study. This room was his sa

ds from years ago, a joke he'd made about a secret panel where he kep

f the wall

safe. It w

covered with photos of Isabella. Dozens of them. Isabella laughing, Isabella on a boat, Isabe

rp handwriting filled the pages. A decade of devotion

Isab

ever loved my aunt. I was chosen for one reason: I was a perfec

his own men, ordered to terrify me just enough so he could swoop in and be my hero. A calc

ntless pursuit of a child. He didn't want a child with me. He wanted a child

ssion. It had all been a perform

rifying thought took root. This child inside me wasn't a product of love. It was the final piece of his collection.

stitute. I would not

of the clinic. My face in the reflection of the window was a mask of ice. The woman I had been was go