His Mafia Princess's Revenge

My husband, Don Lorenzo Bianchi, the man who once took ninety-nine lashes for me, had just locked me in a guest room. I was four months pregnant with our child, the heir to his mafia empire.

My crime was throwing a glass of wine on his mistress, a woman he had moved into our home.

She cornered me in the garden, gloating that once the baby was born, he would give it to her to raise as her own. Later, she shoved me down the grand staircase, then threw herself down after me, screaming to my husband that I had tried to kill her.

As I lay in a pool of my own blood, Lorenzo rushed past me, scooping her into his arms and carrying her away without a single backward glance.

To force me to apologize, he had my parents brought to my hospital room and brutally whipped until they collapsed at his feet.

He was no longer the man who had 999 crystals sewn into my wedding dress. He was a monster who believed every lie she told and punished me for her crimes. How could the man who swore to love me forever become this cruel stranger?

But he didn't know the truth. Days before the fall, I had secretly terminated the pregnancy. I took the urn containing our child's ashes, filed for divorce, and disappeared from his world forever.

Chapter 1

Seraphina POV:

My husband, Don Lorenzo Bianchi, the man who once took ninety-nine lashes for me, had just locked me in a guest room for throwing a glass of wine on his mistress. And in that cold, suffocating silence, I decided our unborn child would pay the price for his betrayal.

It had happened at dinner. Isabella Rossi, with her viper's smile, sat across from me at the long mahogany table that had been in the Bianchi family for generations. She was a guest-a constant, unwelcome presence in my home for the last six months.

"Sera, darling," she'd said, her voice dripping with manufactured sweetness. "You look a little pale. Is the pregnancy not agreeing with you?"

The staff froze. The air grew thick. Everyone knew her place, yet she spoke as if she were the lady of the house.

I placed my fork down, my movements slow and deliberate. I met her gaze across the table and gave her a small, tight smile. "Some things just don't belong in this house, Isabella. They tend to curdle the atmosphere."

Her face tightened. A flicker of real anger flashed in her eyes before she masked it with a wounded look, turning to my husband. "Enzo..."

Lorenzo's gaze, once a source of infinite warmth for me, was now a frozen lake. He didn't even look at me. He simply rose from his chair, his presence alone enough to suffocate the room. He was a living myth in the New York Cosa Nostra, a man whose cold brilliance was legendary. His only weakness, they used to whisper, was me.

"You will be confined to the estate until you learn your place, Seraphina," he said, his voice flat. He signaled to his guards.

And just like that, I was escorted from my own dining room, a prisoner in my own home.

Now, I stand in the middle of a guest room that feels more like a holding cell. The door clicks open and Lorenzo steps inside. He's still in his tailored suit, a monolith of power and cold fury.

"You embarrassed me," he states, not as a husband, but as a Don disciplining a subordinate.

"She provoked me," I say, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. I cradle my stomach, a four-month swell that was once the source of our shared joy. "Lorenzo, please. Think of the baby."

He walks toward me, his shadow falling over me. He places his hand on my stomach, but there is no affection in the touch. It's the chilling, proprietary gesture of a king claiming his heir.

"This is a lesson, Seraphina," he says, his voice a low growl. "A lesson in loyalty. You are the Don's wife. You will behave as such."

A cold dread washes over me, so potent it makes me dizzy. This isn't the man I married. This isn't the boy who defied his own father for me.

My mind flashes back, a cruel trick of memory. Thirteen years. A secret teenage romance that bloomed in the shadows of two different worlds. He was the heir to the Bianchi empire; I was an outsider. When his father, the former Don, demanded he marry for an alliance, Lorenzo refused. He chose me. And he paid the price. Ninety-nine lashes, delivered by his own father's hand, one for every promise of devotion he'd made to me instead of The Family.

I remember my wedding dress, a masterpiece he commissioned himself, adorned with 999 hand-sewn crystals. A testament, he'd whispered, to his obsession. He was the man who would fly his private jet across the country just to have breakfast with me, who called me his tesoro, his "sweet girl."

That man is gone.

The poison began with a name: Isabella Rossi. I first heard it when she brazenly referred to Lorenzo as "my man" at a charity gala. I'd laughed it off, secure in my husband's love.

Then I found him in his study late one night, staring at a photo of her on his phone. The look on his face-that obsessive, hungry intensity-was one I hadn't seen directed at me in months.

"It's a strategic test," he'd explained, his voice smooth and logical. "A way to root out weakness in our organization. She means nothing. You are the one I love, Sera. Always."

He promised he would handle it.

Instead, he brought her into Bianchi Enterprises as his "personal assistant." He flaunted her at board meetings, their heads bent close together, their laughter a public mockery of my position.

I demanded a separation. He'd looked at me, his eyes cold. "Don't displease me, Seraphina."

The final push came from Isabella herself. She'd cornered me in the garden, her smile triumphant. "He's almost mine, you know. He says once the baby is born, he'll have it raised as my own. A real heir needs a strong mother."

Something inside me snapped. I threw a glass of red wine in her face.

My punishment was three days locked in my bedroom. Upon my release, a photo arrived on my phone. It was from a private social media account of hers. A picture of her and Lorenzo, locked in an intimate embrace in his office. The caption read: Soon, the title of Don's wife will be mine.

I stared at the photo, my heart a dead weight in my chest. He was a stranger. This life was a cage.

I am done.

I pull out my phone and find the number I'd saved weeks ago, a discreet clinic two towns over. My hand is steady as I make the call.

"Yes," I say, my voice a hollow echo in the silent room. "I'd like to schedule an appointment. For a termination."