The Mafia Don's Runaway Heiress Wife

ien

bony desk still bore a faint, microscopic

mate laundromat for Moretti blood money-to secure a marriage ring. She looked at me with naive, starry-eyed infatu

ical pawn, but more importantly, she possessed the ghost of a face I used to care about. Isabella's pathetic jealousy boiled over

family's legacy to shreds. That was when the naive girl finally snapped.

d my Enforcer, Rocco, to seal the room. I stitched my own flesh in silence. I d

oor for hours, begging for a divorce. I had gripped her tear-stained jaw, my blood running cold at the m

ver of Sterling Industries. When her father, Arthur, died of a heart attack be

aks open, pulling me v

door, I can hear the muffled, hysterical sobbing of Sofia

yes. "Sir," he starts, his voice uncharacteri

cal weight. The Chicago blizzard howling aga

on

ily ledger in front of me. "Dispose of the body," I com

til a sharp *crack* echoes through the room. The thick resin barrel sn

d spills across the pristine white

narl. My chest suddenly seizes, as if all

air crashing to the floor. I bypass the custom cashmere coat hanging by the door. The blee

d the elevator, tearing a path straight in