"Report's in, Signora."

Sofia slapped a thick file and a fat envelope of photos on my desk.

I flipped it open. Damon, caught in 4K—dates, places, even receipts.

"Strip club. Three nights a week."

One pic had him and Chloe all over each other in some grimy VIP booth. She was draped across his lap, both of them sloppy on cocktails.

"Yeah... that ain't a 'drunken mistake.'"

"Our guys say it's been at least two months," Sofia said coolly. "And the club? Benedetto turf."

I snapped the file shut, fingers drumming.

Benedettos were rats. We'd butted heads over everything—guns, coke, bodies.

Damon sneaking over there? That wasn't cheating. That was treason.

"What else?"

"He used the family card." Sofia flipped a page. "Blew a hundred twenty grand spoiling her."

A hundred twenty grand.

Generous for a guy with jelly for a spine.

Three years ago, his old man, Giovanni, screwed the pooch as capo. Should've been toast.

But Damon? He had that baby-face charm. Soft voice, smooth smile. My type, back then.

I married him, saved his whole bloodline. Giovanni kept his title, got to breathe easy.

Damon played house like a good boy—polite, quiet, soft. I treated him right.

But three years of easy living? Made him forget who handed him that silver spoon.

"Send someone to check on Chloe. 12th Street."

An hour later, Sofia strolled in with a smirk.

"She made sure to clean the alley Damon walks through. Got her hands filthy—really sold the whole 'broken and sad' bit."

Sofia scoffed. "Didn't take long. He showed."

I let out a cold laugh.

Right on cue, Damon stormed into my office, looking ready to explode.

"Vanessa! Why are you torturing an innocent woman?" He jabbed a finger, voice cracking.

I set my pen down. Looked up, slow.

"Innocent?" My voice barely made a sound.

"She's just a poor girl!" he barked. "You can't do this to her!"

"Poor?" I stood, circling the desk. "A stripper, grinding on enemy turf, playing house with my husband for two months, and blowing through a hundred and twenty grand of Cortese money? That's your innocent?"

His face twitched. "It... it was me. I started it."

"Oh, so it's not her fault?" I stepped in, right up in his space. "Whose, then? Mine? For running our empire while you whined about feeling lonely?"

"That's not what I meant..."

He backed up, hit the door.

"Then spit it out," I said, voice sharp enough to slice. "Say it, Damon Russo."

He tried to stand tall. Failed.

"I just think... you didn't have to humiliate her."

I barked a laugh. "Humiliation? You wanna talk about that?"

I pointed at the family portrait on the wall.

"If I hadn't said yes, your father would've vanished."

Each word hit like a bullet.

"Three years ago. He lost fifty mil worth of product and nearly got ten of our guys clipped."

Damon went ghost-white.

"If I hadn't said yes to marrying you, your whole bloodline would've been wiped clean off the Chicago map." I didn't stop. "You think you've been living in silk suits, cruising around in luxury, sleeping under a marble roof 'cause you earned it?"

"Nah," I said slowly, like a verdict. "It's 'cause you married ME. You got to flash the Cortese name. And now you're losing your mind over a stripper?"

He was shaking—could've been fury, could've been shame.

Fists clenched, veins popping.

"I'm done!" he roared, loud enough to rattle the windows. "I'm done living like a damn parasite! Done letting you pull the strings!"

I didn't blink. "Then what do you want, Damon?"

He sucked in a breath, eyes wild—like he was walking himself off a cliff.

"I want a divorce."

"Divorce?" I shot him a smile, cold and sharp. "Fine."

Damon froze like I'd just smacked him. Didn't expect that, huh?

His mouth opened, no sound. I was already at my desk.

"Sofia, get the divorce papers started," I said, grabbing a pen. "And let my father know—Damon's got something to say."

"Vanessa, I—"

"You want out, right?" I didn't even glance at him. "Then take it to the Don. Family rules."

His jaw clenched, but that fake tough guy look stayed plastered on.

"What, you wanna settle this in secret?" I dropped the pen, stared him down. "You forget who you married? I'm not some deli guy's kid."

"This was a mafia deal from the jump," Sofia chimed in, smirking. "If you're tapping out, better get the Don's blessing."

Damon gulped. Sweat slid down his face.

Yeah, he hadn't thought this through.

Probably figured a mafia marriage ends like some courthouse quickie.

Still, hope's a stubborn thing. He stormed off to Papa's office like he had a shot.

As soon as he left, Sofia stepped up. "Signora, what do you think the Don's gonna do?"

I leaned back, kept signing. "Let's see... cheats with some bar trash, burns through our money, then wants a divorce? Papa's gonna teach him what loyalty really means."

Half an hour later, the whole place shook with Papa's roar.

"You said WHAT?!"

Then—smash.

And Damon's screams followed.

The doors flew open. Two guards dragged him out, bloody and wrecked. His face looked like ground beef, shirt soaked in red.

Sofia strolled back in, grinning like it was Christmas. "Don's pissed."

"And?"

"Cracked a rib. Dumped him in an old shipping container down by the docks," she said. "Said he needs some time to cool off—and remember what loyalty means."

I nodded. Exactly what I figured.

My father, Antonio Cortese, doesn't play. He's the kind of old-school Don who treats betrayal like a disease.

Damon thought he could walk away like this was some regular breakup.

He never got it.

Yeah, he was my husband.

But first and always—he was a piece on the board. Property of the Family.

***

An hour later, a knock hit the door—though it was already open.

"Ms. Cortese."

I looked up. Chloe.

"Come in."

She stepped in slow, eyes darting around the room, then dropped to her knees.

"Please, let Damon go!" she sobbed. "It's my fault. I seduced him!"

I watched her, cold smirk curling inside.

Smart move—play the noble mistress, throw herself under the bus. To make Damon look like a victim, me like the villain.

Too bad she picked the wrong game.

"You wanna save him?" I stood, looking down at her.

"Yes!" Chloe nodded fast, tears pouring. "I'll do anything. I'll keep working at the bar. I'll give you more money!"

"Anything?" I circled her like I was weighing it out. "Even sharing his punishment?"

Her face drained, but she still nodded. "Yes. I'll go with him."

How romantic.

"Perfect." I sat down, grabbed the phone. "Sofia, get the guys ready."

"Send Chloe to the container," I said, calm as ever. "Let her join Damon."

She went limp. That flicker in her eyes? Gone.

Took her long enough to figure it out—I was never buying her act.

"That container," I added, "you can count survivors on one hand."

"No... No!" Chloe scrambled back, crawling toward the door. "I changed my mind! I don't wanna—I don't wanna die!"

Too late.

Two guards stepped in, grabbed her by the arms.

She thrashed like mad, nails dragging across the floor.

"Congrats, Ms. Williams," I said with a smile. "You're about to have your big reunion with Prince Charming."

"It's all your damn fault!"

Chloe's voice screeched through the monitor, echoing off the rusted metal walls.

I watched from outside, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen.

The container was a dump—smelled like rust and sea rot. No windows, just a tiny vent letting in barely enough air to breathe. Light was crap, made the whole place feel like a coffin.

Damon was curled in a corner, bandaged up and ghost-pale.

Chloe loomed over him, all her fake sweetness gone.

"If you hadn't pissed off Vanessa, I wouldn't be trapped in this hellhole!" Her finger jabbed at him, voice cracking with panic and rage.

Took just a few hours for reality to slap her in the face.

This wasn't some rom-com fairytale. No white knight. No rescue. Just cold steel and consequences.

"Chloe, I..." Damon tried to sit up, wincing hard as pain shot through his chest.

That cocky tone he used to flash around me? Gone.

"Too late for that now!" Chloe snapped, pacing like a wildcat in a cage.

Her heels shrieked against the metal floor.

"I could've kept grinding at the bar, yeah—it sucked, but I was safe! But you—" She whirled on him, eyes lit with fury. "You said Vanessa was just some spoiled girl!

"You said she wouldn't touch me!

"You said the worst she'd do was throw a tantrum!"

Damon's face flushed. "I... I didn't think she'd go this far..."

"Go this far?" Chloe laughed, sharp and hollow. "She's a freaking mafia princess! What, you thought this was just some soap opera?"

She kicked a metal barrel—loud clang.

"The guards said some of those stains on the wall? Blood. And some... yeah." She didn't finish, didn't need to. Damon's flinch said it all.

Silence dropped like a weight. Just wind rattling the container and waves crashing somewhere far off.

They were buried deep in the docks. Even if someone heard them, no one would care.

"Damon." Her voice cracked, way softer now.

She edged closer, fear dragging her back to him. Like it or not, he was all she had.

She crouched beside him, fury melting into raw panic.

"Are we gonna die here?" she breathed.

"We're not," he muttered, jaw tight. "I'll fix it."

"How?!" Chloe grabbed his hand. "She crushed your ribs!"

"I'll beg Vanessa. Tell her I screwed up." He didn't believe it.

Now he finally saw just how dumb he'd been.

After three years in the family, he still thought he mattered. Thought he had pull.

Now he got it—he was nothing but a tagalong.

"Will she forgive you?" Chloe whispered.

"She will," he muttered. "She's still my wife."

Even he didn't buy that lie. Regret was already chewing him up inside.

Two hours later, he bribed a guard for an old phone.

With shaking fingers, he hit record.

"Vanessa... I was wrong. So wrong." His voice shook. "I never should've betrayed you. Never should've brought her into our home.

"I'll do anything. Whatever you want, it's yours. Just... forgive me."

"I love you, Vanessa. Always have." He was choking back tears. "Please... give me one more chance. I won't screw it up again.

"I'll prove to you I'm worthy of being your husband.

Five minutes of groveling. Pathetic.

A long fall from the cocky texts he used to send me.

Now, for Chloe's sake, he was sugar and fake promises.

Still a smooth talker. Just desperate now.

I wiped the message, eyes fixed on the window.

City lights blinked in the dark, cold and nosy—like this whole rotten world was watching.

"Signora, do you want to reply?" Sofia asked.

I tossed the phone down. "Nah. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we watch the show."