I Resign: The Mafia Boss's Unwanted Wife

I was gasping for air on the cold marble floor of the Syndicate Ball, my lungs seizing in a familiar, lethal rhythm.

My inhaler was just five feet away, but it might as well have been miles.

Dante Moretti, the man who bought my life with his blood eight years ago, looked right at me.

He saw my panic. He saw the weakness he despised.

Then, he turned his back on me to continue waltzing with his mistress.

That betrayal was just the beginning.

When the elevator trapped us days later, the lights flickering and the air growing thin, Dante didn't hesitate.

He pried the doors open and carried Sofia out like a fragile bride.

He left me—his wife with a diagnosed respiratory condition—alone in the suffocating dark to die.

He missed my birthday dinner to comfort her on a Ferris Wheel, leaving me to celebrate with a single candle on a slice of toast.

I finally realized that to him, I wasn't a wife to be cherished. I was just property to be owned.

Something inside me didn't just break; it clicked into place.

I stopped waiting for him to come home.

I left my wedding ring on the table, blocked his number, and walked out into the night.

Now, Dante is tearing the city apart to find me, claiming he realizes his mistake.

But he's too late.

Because the man standing beside me now isn't offering me a diamond ring or empty promises.

He just handed me a loaded Glock and asked if I wanted to be his Queen.

Chapter 1

Elena POV

I was gasping for air on the cold marble floor of the Syndicate Ball, my lungs seizing in a familiar, lethal rhythm, while the man who swore to protect me waltzed in the center of the room with his mistress.

My inhaler was in my clutch.

My clutch was on the table.

The table was five feet away, but it might as well have been five miles.

My vision blurred at the edges. Black spots danced across the crystal chandeliers, mocking the glittering lights.

I clawed at the collar of my dress. It was tight. Everything in my life was tight. Suffocating.

I looked up, desperate for eyes that recognized me.

Dante Moretti held Sofia Rossi close.

His hand, the one with the jagged scar that ran from his wrist to his knuckles, rested possessively on her lower back. That scar was supposed to be my promise.

Eight years ago, he took shrapnel for me. He saved me from the bomb that killed my brother. He bought my life with his blood.

I had spent every day since paying off that debt with my silence.

Dante turned. His dark eyes swept over the crowd. They landed on me.

I was on my knees, one hand gripping the velvet tablecloth, my chest heaving in silent, agonizing spasms. He saw me. He saw the panic. He saw the weakness he so despised.

Then, he looked away.

He turned back to Sofia, whispered something in her ear, and spun her around. He chose the dance.

A waiter finally saw me. He rushed over, panic in his eyes, and shoved the clutch into my trembling hands.

I took two puffs. Then three.

The medicine burned my throat. Air rushed back in, sharp and cold.

I stood up. My legs shook, but I stood.

I didn't look at the dance floor again. I walked out to the valet stand, my dignity dragging behind me like a tattered train.

Twenty minutes later, Dante slid into the back of the armored SUV. He smelled like expensive scotch and Sofia's cloying vanilla perfume.

He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't look at me.

He tapped on the partition.

"Drive."

The car lurched forward.

I stared at the glove compartment. It was slightly open. Inside, velvet caught the streetlights. A box.

My heart gave a pathetic, hopeful flutter. Maybe he cared. Maybe the dance was politics. Maybe he saw me struggling and bought me something to apologize for the years of neglect.

I reached out and opened it.

A diamond the size of a robin's egg sat inside. It was magnificent. It was a promise.

Dante's hand shot out.

He snatched the box from my grip, snapping the lid shut with a sound like a gunshot.

"That is not for you," he said.

His voice was devoid of emotion. Flat. Cruel.

"I didn't think it was," I lied.

"Good," he said, sliding the box into his jacket pocket. "You don't need jewelry to know who owns you, Elena."

Owns.

Not loves. Not cherishes.

Owns.

Like the car. Like the penthouse. Like the gun in his holster.

Something inside my chest clicked. It wasn't a heartbeat. It was a lock breaking.

I looked out the window. We were passing the bridal district. The mannequin in the window of La Sposa wore a dress of lace and silk. My dress. The one I had ordered for the Family gathering next week.

"Stop the car," I said.

Dante didn't look up from his phone.

"We are going home."

"Stop the car," I repeated.

My voice was quiet. Steady. For the first time in eight years, it didn't tremble.

"Driver," Dante barked. "Pull over. Let her out if she wants to walk."

The SUV pulled to the curb.

I didn't walk away. I opened the door and stepped onto the pavement.

"Wait here," I told the driver.

Dante looked at me then. Annoyance flashed in his eyes.

"Make it quick, Elena. I have calls to make."

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

The handsome face of the Capo who ruled the city's underworld. The man I worshipped. The man who just told me the ring wasn't mine.

"It will be very quick," I said.