A Mafia Wife Does Not Forgive

I knew something was wrong the moment Valentina Russo laughed.

Too loud.

Too close.

Too much like a goumada staking a claim on a man that didn't belong to her—

my husband.

Her perfume—expensive Sicilian bergamot and arrogance—cut through the cigar smoke at the table, invading Dante Santoro's space.

A deliberate move.

A challenge to my position as his wife.

"This one's good," Valentina says, leaning into Dante Santoro's shoulder like she has the right. "Remember the scar near your shoulder blade?"

My fork freezes midair.

The shoulder blade scar.

The place where made men take the oath—where blood is drawn and vows are sealed.

Only wives and brothers were allowed to touch it.

Dante gives that stupid half-smile he uses when he's hiding something. "Which scar?"

"The one from your initiation night," she purrs, her fingers trailing near his neck. "You were so drunk after the ceremony. I had to help you into the car, hold you steady, press against you so you wouldn't fall."

The table erupts in awkward laughter.

My heart doesn't.

Her little performance isn't about a scar.

It's about disrespect.

About violating the oath he took—forsaking all others when he kissed the Don's ring and swore to honor our marriage.

Valentina continues, voice dripping poison. "You flinched every time I touched near it. Almost like you were still feeling the blade."

Dante snaps, "Okay," but he's smiling.

Actually smiling.

Everyone looks between them.

No one looks at me.

My chest tightens. "You never mentioned that version of the story," I say quietly.

Valentina finally turns to me, lashes fluttering innocently. "Oh my God, Gabriella, was that too much? I didn't realize you were sensitive about old… family moments."

Old family moments.

She says it like she was his wife, and I'm the puttana at the table.

I inhale slowly. My voice comes out smooth. "It explains a lot."

Her brows lift. "Such as?"

"That you're used to touching things you don't own."

The table goes silent.

Even the air stills—omertà settling over the table like a shroud.

Carmine coughs. Luca looks away.

Valentina drops her sweetness.

Dante shoots me a warning look. "Gabriella. Not cool."

Not cool?

My husband defending a woman bragging about touching his oath scar is fine—

but my line breaks the code?

Valentina flicks her hair. "It's really okay. Gabriella's just overwhelmed. Some wives get emotional on anniversaries."

My jaw clenches.

Dante mutters sharply, "Stop it. You're making this weird."

"Me?" I laugh under my breath. It comes out cracked. "I'm making this weird?"

The night unravels fast.

People pretend nothing happened.

Valentina refills Dante's grappa, brushing her fingers over his wrist—the kind of touch that sends a message to everyone watching.

A message that says: I have access.

And he lets her.

Dante avoids my eyes.

And I sit there realizing I've been the outsider in my own marriage for a very long time.

—

By the time we reach the parking garage, my blood is boiling with Sicilian fury.

Dante grabs my arm. His grip tightens just enough to assert dominance—capo posturing. "What the hell was that inside?"

"What was what?" I yank free. "Your goumada bragging about touching your oath scar and pressing herself against you?"

He scoffs. "It was a joke, Gabriella. You overreacted."

There it is.

The sentence every gaslighting made man keeps in his pocket.

Anger surges, hot and clean. "She disrespected me in front of the family."

"You're being dramatic."

He runs a hand through his hair. "You embarrassed me."

I freeze.

"You're worried about how you looked?" My voice shakes. "Dante, she humiliated me."

"It wasn't about you," he snaps.

Not.

About.

Me.

Something inside me cracks cleanly in half—

a marriage vow breaking under pressure.

He softens slightly at my silence. "Let's just go home. We'll talk tomorrow when you're calmer."

"I am calm," I say. "Calmer than I've ever been."

He exhales, relieved. "Good. Then let's—"

"But I'm not going home with you."

His relief shatters. "What?"

"I'm leaving."

"Gabriella, stop. Don't make this big."

"It is big," I whisper. "You just don't care."

He steps closer, lowering his voice like a scolding capo. "You're tired. Emotional. We're going home."

I step back.

Then again.

"No," I say. "You go home."

His face drains. "You're serious?"

Deadly.

I press the car fob. My headlights flash. "Enjoy the rest of your anniversary, Dante."

"Gabriella, don't walk away!"

I pause at the driver's door. "I'm not walking away," I say softly. "I'm waking up."

I get in.

He stands frozen in the garage light, staring at me like he's seeing me for the first time.

The marriage vow between us feels thin.

Frayed.

Dangerously close to breaking.

I pull out.

My phone buzzes—his name flashing.

I don't answer.