The Rejected Mafia Wife He Left To Die In The Cold

After Rebirth, the second time my husband’s consigliere—the woman who would eventually replace me—slid a leather leash around my neck while I slept, I didn’t reach for the gun beneath the pillow. I didn’t scream, didn’t shatter the crystal, didn’t lose control and threaten to burn the estate down, the way I had the last time when Dante defended Zara Bellwether in front of the entire family. Instead, I gave Dante a brittle, empty smile. “She has nerve. You two enjoy the game.” I let the words hang there, heavy and final. “Consider our ten-year anniversary party cancelled. I’ll be leaving now.” I pulled on the trench coat draped over the foot of the bed and walked out of the estate without a second glance.

I couldn’t afford to be the old me. The fallout from my past rebellion against Dante Rossi had been a cold, surgical execution. He hadn’t just divorced me; he’d erased me. Every account was frozen overnight. The best under-the-table lawyer in the city only secured a settlement check for $50.00—a final, deliberate insult. Just outside his territory, I was diagnosed with late-stage glandular cancer. When the pain became a white-hot, constant agony, I abandoned every shred of dignity I had left and crawled back to the gates of Dante’s estate. He let Zara grind the heel of her stiletto into my hand while I lay freezing on the gravel, and didn’t send a single guard to let me in. I was broke, alone, and I died of exposure right outside the iron gates of the home I had spent ten years nurturing. Pride is a luxury for the living. What I didn’t expect was for Dante to follow me. He stopped me at the end of the long portico. “Listen to me, Anya. Zara is young, careless. It was a stupid joke with a leash.” “She has no malice. Her father and mine were blood brothers. She grew up here, always getting away with things. You’re my wife, damn it. Rise above it.” He’d said those exact words the last time. Then, I was already shaking with rage after Zara had intentionally burned me with the family-crested lighter—a symbol of my own fading power. Hearing Dante’s placid defense, I’d shattered. I fired three shots into the marble floor at his feet, yelled, “We are done, forever!” and fled the estate in a storm of fury. I was a fool. I thought breaking him would break the Capo. But I walked through the winter rain for hours in a flimsy coat, my high heels slicing the skin on my ankles, until I collapsed with a fever. As I lay dying in the safe-house apartment, Dante didn’t send a search party. That night, he took Zara to Monte Carlo. The next morning, the pictures were all over the family’s private network: him adjusting the small-of-her-back holster, her standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. It was too much. A cold, bitter laugh escaped me. The next second, Dante gripped my wrist, his voice tight. “How many times do I have to explain this? Zara is my godfather’s daughter. I am responsible for her. It’s a damn scratch, put some cream on it.” His voice hardened. “Can you stop this pathetic speculation? This petty, baseless jealousy?” The sudden, chilling rage in his eyes made my chest ache. It wasn’t for him. It was for the girl I used to be. That girl, in her last life, suffered the most excruciating form of cancer. She cried and begged to die early. When she ran out of money, she once pressed a utility knife into her rail-thin arm just to shock herself unconscious and escape the pain for a moment. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to sell the wedding band he’d given her—the one set with a black diamond, engraved with the family crest. A month before the end, she dragged her wasted body back to him. He had promised her forever, kneeling in a pool of her parents’ blood after their assassination. But when she knelt outside his estate, begging the guard on the intercom to send a message, Dante’s voice came back cold and final: “Anya, you chose to leave. Leaving means there are no ties left. Don’t contact me again.” The line went dead. I collapsed at the iron gates. In my last moments, I watched him and Zara kissing in the rose garden I had personally curated, drinking wine from the crystal stemware I had chosen. The memory was a physical chokehold. I choked it down, regaining my composure. “Dante, I’m not jealous, and I’m not angry with Zara.” “I’m just tired. I’m going home. Go back to your party.” A flicker of genuine shock crossed his face. I didn’t look back. I walked away, found a cab, and retreated to the safe-house apartment downtown. I bolted the door. The first thing I did was call a private medical center. I scheduled a full diagnostic screening for the morning. This life, I only wanted to live. As soon as I hung up, Dante walked back in. He tore off his tie, his brow furrowed with familiar impatience. “What was that stunt in the hallway? Anya, stop sulking.” Ever since Zara became his executive assistant, Dante had grown progressively colder and more critical. His dramatic shift, coupled with Zara’s constant needling, was what had driven the former me to constantly escalate and lose control. I swallowed the tight, aching knot in my chest. “Believe me or not, I’m not angry, I’m not sulking, and I’m not throwing a fit.” “Look.” I held up my hand. “The scratch is already disinfected. I truly am not holding a grudge against you. And I certainly wouldn’t dare cross Zara.” I retreated to the bathroom and locked the door. When I came out, Dante was gone. My encrypted burner phone was flashing relentlessly. It was Zara’s ritual: any time she was with Dante, she’d flood my inbox with real-time photos. She was using me as her cloud album. In the past, these images would send me into hysterical fits or on a raging charge back to the estate. Now, I looked at the new photos. I didn’t curse her. Instead, I sent a thoughtful reply: “Shooting angle is all wrong, Dante’s profile is better from above. Try holding the phone higher next time.” “Also, too much negative space in the frame. Doesn’t read as intimate enough.” Zara fired back instantly: “Did your account get hacked?” I sent a smiley face emoji. “Nope. Just letting you know he’s all yours now.” Then, I blocked her. This triangle dynamic suits me: I want the Capo’s wife title and the limitless black card; Dante’s body and heart? Zara can have them. Unlike the fool I was, I just want to survive. After dispatching Zara, I lay down to sleep. But even with a second chance, sleep eluded me. I was still plagued by the ghosts of the past, just like when I was sick in the last life. When we were kids, Dante, solitary and sharp-edged, faced the brutal discipline of the previous Capo—his father. I would sometimes wake up long after midnight and hear the crack of a steel whip from the training grounds—a penalty for failing a drill. Living across the yard, I felt sorry for him. I used to sneak out and slip a piece of candy—a salted caramel—into the pocket of the jacket he left hanging by his door, along with a tiny note: “When it hurts, eat one.” The first time I did it, he cornered me, his ears bright red. “…I don’t like sweets.” I only laughed, waving my hand dismissively. “Dante, you should talk more. You have a good voice.” It became our ritual. The boy who walked alone began to wait for me, began to expect the warmth of the caramel in his pocket. We walked that dark alley in our neighborhood together for countless nights. When he was eighteen, just before he was sent to a closed academy in Switzerland as the heir apparent, he found me and pressed a card into my hand. “I checked the security level of this art college. It’s high, and it’s not far from my academy. Your grades are weak for undergrad, but you could try the pre-program.” I never told him my parents could have afforded any art school in the world. Instead, I secretly changed my plans and applied to the school closest to his. I took my father’s predictable fury without regret. Soon, we were in the same city. Freed from his father’s direct supervision, Dante was transformed: the thick glasses were gone, replaced by contacts; his hair was clipped short; he wore custom suits; he even taught himself Chopin. I never knew why, until one night, as I cheered in my studio for an upcoming exhibit, he grabbed my wrist, his eyes burning. “I’ve become everything you wanted. Can’t you finally just look at me?” The word ‘wanted’ hit me like a bullet. Even across campuses, his legend was growing: purging a family traitor at sixteen, taking over half the business by eighteen, and generally acknowledged as the next Capo by twenty. Countless women documented his “glow-up” in private forums. I thought a world of blood separated us, yet he was confessing his feelings. The always-reckless me kissed him on tiptoes without a second thought. Later, we were a couple. I spent my days researching how to brew his coffee, choose his cufflinks, and select his records. My life had no plan, only him. Dante’s life, however, kept soaring: he consolidated power, eliminated rivals, and was crowned Capo at twenty-three. The contrast with my own life was a cruel joke. I gave up my sketchbook for a life of selecting his cufflinks, choosing his wine, and planning his menus. My only self-worth was in being his appendage. Even the parents who loved me most were killed by rivals in a car bombing on the way to see my first solo show. As an orphan, I wept over their few remaining possessions until I passed out. Dante knelt before their wake, in defiance of his father’s icy glare, and swore he would protect and care for me for the rest of my life. We married. I had multiple miscarriages, and my health failed. Then Dante met Zara. He began to find me empty. All I ever asked was what he wanted to eat, or what he wanted to wear. Unlike Zara, who could talk to him about arms deals, territory mapping, and accompany him into any blood-soaked negotiation. My eyes were stinging. I opened them. Morning light filtered through the window. The pillow was soaked with tears again. A text message from Dante came in: “Visiting my father at the sanitarium this afternoon.” I replied calmly: “I have an appointment today. I can’t make it.” His call came in instantly. “What appointment?” “Anya, I’ve told you—Zara and I are nothing. Why do you always choose to make a crisis out of a trifle?” Hearing him bring up Zara again felt farcical. Dante was notoriously a man of few words. This was the most he’d ever explained himself over any one thing. Was he trying to convince me he hadn’t fallen for her, or himself? Or was he easing his own guilt? My chest tightened, but I kept my tone flat. “Dante, I’m unwell. I have a full medical workup scheduled. I can’t go with you today.” “Besides, your father has a heart condition and has always disliked me. Isn’t it better if I don’t upset him? Didn’t he always say that only a woman of Zara’s pedigree was fit to stand beside you? Take her instead.” It was genuine advice. Dante exploded. “Anya, stop with the drama.” The line went dead. I heard the dial tone and let out a cold chuckle.