Beneath the Roses: A Mafia’s Wife

Isabella's POV

"Ma'am, happy 5th Wedding Anniversary. I'll be back in the morning." I nod at my house servant by glancing at the clock. The hands stretch out, pointing almost to midnight.

I turn my head to see the roses standing proudly in my vase, each blooms a crimson wound against the pristine white of the tablecloth. Nine hundred and ninety-nine roses. Marco certainly has a flair for the drama.

The day had begun with a naive hope of getting him like before, but I only got roses.

The dull ache in my abdomen wells up my eyes, a cruel reminder of losing my child in the morning. Still, there was an expectation in my heart to get Marco beside me to be healed from the pain. However, it's ironic to wish for something like that now.

My phone lies beside me, silent and mocking. I pick it up and dial Marco’s number. It rings once, twice, and then the call is answered. But it’s not Marco’s voice that greets me.

“Mrs. DeLuca, this is Sofia Ricci. How can I assist you?” Sofia’s voice is smooth and professional. I can almost picture her, sitting at Marco’s side as always.

“I need to speak with my husband,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. “Where is he?”

There’s a brief pause, a rustle of movement, and then Marco’s voice comes through, clipped and indifferent. “What is it, Isabella?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I want a divorce, Marco.”

The silence that follows is deafening. I can hear my own heartbeat, loud and frantic in my ears. Finally, Marco speaks, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. “As you wish.”

The call ends abruptly. I stare at the phone, a mixture of disbelief and anger swirling inside me. That’s it? “As you wish”? No questions, no arguments, just cold acceptance.

How silly am I? After all, Sofia is there for him and thankfully today I didn’t need to hear her moans over the phone call. With a broken heart I curl on the bed, my eyes well up. I couldn’t guess that I would face something like this one day. Alas! Everything is now only a good past for him, nothing else.

The next two weeks pass in a blur. Marco is a ghost, coming and going at odd hours, never sparing me more than a cursory glance. Each night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering where it all went wrong. How had we ended up here, so far apart, when once we had been so close?

One night, the front door creaks open, and I hear Marco’s footsteps echoing through the empty house. He enters the kitchen, looking around as if expecting something. His gaze settles on me, and he frowns.

“Isabella, why is there no food on the table?” He demands, with his voice, a sharp contrast to the silence that has settled over our home.

I meet his gaze, unflinching. “I didn’t cook tonight.”

He scowls, moving closer. “I’m hungry. Make me something.”

I rise from my seat, crossing my arms over my chest. “Make it yourself, Marco.”

His eyes narrow. “What’s gotten into you? I brought you a gift.” He holds out a designer bag, the brand name, a blatant display of wealth and status.

I glance at the bag, then back at him. “A gift? Is that supposed to make everything better?” I take a step closer, my voice rising. “You can’t buy my forgiveness, Marco. I asked for a divorce.”

He sighs, exasperated. “Isabella, be reasonable. We can talk about this. But right now, I need you to make dinner.” He doesn’t care even about our relationship.

I shake my head, feeling the weight of my resolve. “I’m done talking, Marco. You had your chance. It’s too late.”

His expression shifts, a flicker of something almost resembling regret passing over his features. “Isabella, let’s not make any hasty decisions. Think about Leonardo.”

At the mention of our son, my heart clenches. “Don’t you dare bring him into this. You care more about Sofia than you do about your own family.”

Marco’s face hardens. “Sofia is my secretary. You know that.”

I laugh, the sound bitter and hollow. “Your secretary? Do you think I’m blind and deaf? Those moans over phone calls, hickey on your shoulder, nails digging marks.”

He takes a step back, his hands clenched into fists. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable?” I feel a surge of anger. “I lost our baby, Marco. I miscarried while you were off playing house with Sofia.”

His face pales but changes in a moment. “You… you lost the baby?”

“Yes,” I whisper, the tears I’ve been holding back finally spilling over. “Our baby is gone, and you didn’t even notice.”

He reaches out, as if to touch me, but I step back. “Isabella, it’s okay.”

“Are you serious?” I scream, the pent-up frustration and pain bursting forth. “You don’t even care for our unborn baby.”

He stands there, silent and painless. I take a deep breath, wiping away the tears. “This is over, Marco. I’m done. I want a divorce.”

Before he can respond, I turn and walk away, leaving him standing in the kitchen, surrounded by the cold, empty remnants of what once was our home.

The next morning, I wake to the sound of hushed voices. I slip out of bed and pad silently to the top of the stairs. Below, I see Marco and Sofia, their heads close together, whispering urgently. My heart sinks, but I force myself to listen.

“She’s serious about the divorce,” Sofia says, her tone equally anxious. “What if she takes Leonardo?”

I clench my fists, this is it. She has the audacity to talk about my family. But before I can speak, Sofia’s next words stop me cold.

“You can’t let that happen, Marco. You have to do something. Anything. Leonardo is your heir.”

"Yes, I need to end it in a cunning way.” Marco’s response is lost to the roaring in my ears. I back away, my mind racing. They’re plotting against me, something dangerous.

I return to my room, my hands trembling as I grab my phone and dial a number I never thought I’d use. The call connects, and a voice answers on the other end.

“Giovanni? It’s Isabella. I need your help.” I’ve to take a wise step now.