The Underboss's Wife, Now His Queen

I stood outside my husband's study, the perfect mafia wife, only to hear him mocking me as an "ice sculpture" while he entertained his mistress, Aria.

But the betrayal went deeper than infidelity.

A week later, my saddle snapped mid-jump, leaving me with a shattered leg. Lying in the hospital bed, I overheard the conversation that killed the last of my love.

My husband, Alessandro, knew Aria had sabotaged my gear. He knew she could have killed me.

Yet, he told his men to let it go. He called my near-death experience a "lesson" because I had bruised his mistress's ego.

He humiliated me publicly, freezing my accounts to buy family heirlooms for her. He stood by while she threatened to leak our private tapes to the press.

He destroyed my dignity to play the hero for a woman he thought was a helpless orphan.

He had no idea she was a fraud.

He didn't know I had installed micro-cameras throughout the estate while he was busy pampering her.

He didn't know I had hours of footage showing his "innocent" Aria sleeping with his guards, his rivals, and even his staff, laughing about how easy he was to manipulate.

At the annual charity gala, in front of the entire crime family, Alessandro demanded I apologize to her.

I didn't beg. I didn't cry.

I simply connected my drive to the main projector and pressed play.

Chapter 1

Katarina De Luca POV

I stood outside the heavy oak doors of my husband's study, clutching a stack of financial reports against my chest, when the sound of a woman's laughter froze the blood in my veins.

The realization struck me with the force of a physical blow: if I opened this door, I would either die a wife or live as a widow.

The laughter wasn't soft, and it certainly wasn't polite. It was the sound of a woman who knew she had already won-a sound that threatened to strip away the title of Underboss's wife, a distinction I had worn like armor for three years.

I gripped the leather folder until my knuckles turned white.

Only hours earlier, I had woken up in the sprawling master suite of the De Luca estate. The silk sheets were cold on the other side of the bed. But that was normal.

Alessandro was a man of business, a man of violence, and I was the statue he had placed in his home to represent stability.

I had sat at my vanity, brushing my hair until it shone like spun gold. I applied my makeup with the precision of a soldier painting on war paint.

I was Katarina De Luca. I was the envy of every Capo's wife. They bowed their heads when I walked by, but I could feel their eyes crawling over my skin, searching for cracks.

They were waiting for me to break.

I had looked at the reflection in the mirror. Perfect skin. Perfect hair. Dead eyes.

My mind drifted to the day Alessandro put the ring on my finger. He had looked at me with something that resembled respect. I thought it was enough. I thought if I molded myself into the perfect mafia wife-silent, beautiful, unyielding-he would eventually look at me with warmth.

I was a fool.

To him, I was just another acquisition. A trophy to polish and put on a shelf.

My gaze dropped to the corner of the vanity. There, sitting innocently beside my imported perfumes, was a tube of lipstick. It was a cheap, drugstore brand. The plastic casing was scratched. The shade was a garish, trashy pink that I would never wear.

A chill raced down my spine.

I had pushed the thought away. A servant must have left it. Or a guest.

Now, standing in the hallway, that tube of lipstick felt like a premonition.

The laughter inside the study died down, replaced by a low, guttural groan. It was Alessandro. It was a sound I had never heard him make. Not with me.

With me, he was efficient. Silent. Cold.

I didn't knock.

I pushed the door open barely an inch.

The sight hit me harder than a bullet.

Alessandro was leaning against his mahogany desk, his white dress shirt unbuttoned halfway. And there, pressed between his legs, was Aria.

She wasn't his sister. She wasn't his cousin. She was the "family friend" he had brought into the manor six months ago. The poor, debt-ridden girl with the sad eyes that everyone pitied.

Her head was thrown back, exposing her throat. Her hands were tangled in Alessandro's dark hair.

Alessandro looked at her with a hunger that terrified me. He looked... alive.

Aria turned her head slightly. She saw me.

She didn't pull away. She didn't gasp.

She smiled.

It was a slow, venomous curve of her lips. She deliberately shifted her hand, dragging her nails down Alessandro's chest, leaving a red mark. She wanted me to see. She wanted me to know that the lipstick on his collar was hers.

"You are so real, Aria," Alessandro murmured, his voice rough with passion. "So warm."

He ran a hand down her back. "Not like her. Not like that ice sculpture I have to go home to."

The air left my lungs.

Ice sculpture.

That was what I was to him. While I spent every waking moment trying to be perfect for him, trying to be the woman worthy of the De Luca name, he was here, with this fraud, mocking my very existence.

A wave of nausea rolled over me. I felt bile rise in my throat.

My fingers went numb. The folder of documents slipped slightly, crinkling loudly in the silence of the hallway.

I stepped back before Alessandro could turn his head.

I turned and walked away. My heels clicked against the marble floor, a rhythmic countdown to the explosion of my life.

I passed a group of maids dusting the hallway. They stopped talking as I approached, but the moment I passed, the whispers started. They knew. The Capos' wives knew. Everyone knew.

I was the only one who had been blind.

I made it to my room and locked the door.

I leaned against the wood, breathing hard. I walked to the mirror. The woman staring back at me looked pale, fragile. Broken.

No.

I straightened my spine. I wiped the single tear that had escaped.

There is an old Sicilian proverb my father used to say: The sharpest knife is often hidden under the calmest water.

I walked to my desk and pulled out the file I had started compiling on Aria weeks ago. I had dismissed my suspicions then, thinking I was being paranoid. Now, I looked at the papers with new eyes.

Gambling debts. Massive ones. A history of fraud. Connections to rival families that were too coincidental to be accidents.

She wasn't just a mistress. She was a parasite. And Alessandro had invited her in.

He had promised me the villa in Como for our fifth anniversary. Last week, I heard Aria telling the gardener about the flowers she wanted to plant there.

He was replacing me.

He didn't love me. He never had. I was a utility. A placeholder until he could install his true obsession.

I felt something inside me snap. It was the tether of loyalty I had held onto for so long, finally breaking under the strain.

I reached for my phone. My hands were steady now.

I dialed a number that hadn't been used in years.

"Giuseppe," I said when the old man answered. "I need you to do something for me."

I hung up and walked to my jewelry box. I took out the necklace Alessandro had given me on our wedding day. It bore the De Luca crest. Heavy. Golden. Suffocating.

I unclasped it and dropped it into the deepest drawer of my vanity.

The perfect statue was broken.

The war had just begun.

Katarina De Luca POV

I sat at the head of the long mahogany dining table, the morning sun filtering through the high-arched windows. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light, oblivious to the tension winding tight in the room.

Donato De Luca, the Don of the family and my father-in-law, sat at the opposite end. He was cutting his steak with surgical precision, the knife scraping against the china in rhythmic, deliberate strokes.

"Katarina," he said, his voice gravelly, like stones grinding together. "You seem quiet this morning."

I took a slow sip of my black coffee. It was bitter, mirroring the taste of bile I'd been swallowing for weeks.

"I've been reviewing the family's charitable foundation accounts, Donato," I said, keeping my voice smooth, devoid of emotion. "I noticed some... irregularities. Parasitic expenses that are bleeding the fund dry."

Donato paused, his knife hovering mid-air. He looked up, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes boring into mine. He was a predator by nature, and he recognized the shift in the atmospheric pressure. He didn't see the submissive, grieving daughter-in-law today. He saw a player sitting at the table.

"Is that so?" he asked, his interest piqued.

"I think it's time we cut the dead weight," I stated, holding his gaze. "Starting with the discretionary allowances for non-core family members. We need to prioritize the legacy, not fund the hobbies of hangers-on."

He stared at me for a long, stretching moment. Then, a small, almost imperceptible smile touched the corners of his lips. It was a look of approval.

"Mark," he called out to his Consigliere, who was blending into the shadows by the wall. "Do as she says."

Mark nodded once and began tapping on his tablet.

Two hours later, the shockwave hit the manor.

News traveled fast in our world. Aria had tried to purchase a limited-edition designer handbag in the city, only to have her Black Card declined. Rumor had it the sales clerks had been less than discreet about the rejection.

I sat in the family garden, a book open on my lap, though I hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes. The air was fragrant with jasmine, but the peace was about to be shattered.

I heard the commotion before I saw it.

Aria was marching across the manicured lawn, her face flushed a mottled red. She looked ready to scream, to tear me apart. But the moment she spotted me, her expression shifted instantly.

The anger vanished, replaced by a mask of sweet, wide-eyed concern. It was a terrifyingly practiced switch.

We were near the family stables. It was a gathering day, meaning several Capos' wives were present, sipping champagne under the white pavilion and watching the thoroughbreds.

Aria walked up to me. She was wearing a custom riding outfit that likely cost more than the GDP of a small country.

"Katarina," she cooed, reaching out to link her arm with mine. "Is everything okay? I heard there was a terrible glitch with the accounts."

She was testing me. She wanted a reaction, a public scene she could manipulate.

I felt a physical revulsion at her touch. It was like having a viper coil around my bicep.

I pulled away. I didn't shove her. I didn't strike her. I simply stepped back, disengaging my limb from hers as if she were contagious.

"Personal space, Aria," I said, my voice dipping into a frigid register.

Aria's eyes widened. She stumbled back, though there was nothing to trip over. She threw her arms out, unbalanced herself on purpose, and fell backward onto the muddy grass with a theatrical gasp.

"Oh!" she cried out, clutching her ankle and grimacing in feigned pain. "Katarina, why did you push me?"

The chatter under the pavilion stopped instantly.

The wives rushed over, their heels sinking into the turf, clucking like a flock of agitated hens.

"How could you?" one of them hissed at me, kneeling beside Aria. "She's just a girl."

"So heartless," another whispered loud enough for everyone to hear.

I stood there, frozen in the center of the storm. The gaslighting was instant. Collective. They saw what they wanted to see.

Then came the heavy, urgent footsteps.

Alessandro came striding from the stables, his boots thudding against the earth. He didn't look at me. He went straight to Aria, scooping her up into his arms as if she were made of spun glass.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice dripping with a tenderness that made my stomach turn over.

"I'm fine," Aria whimpered, burying her face in the crook of his neck, hiding her smirk. "She didn't mean it. I probably just... tripped."

Alessandro turned his head. His eyes met mine, and they were shards of blue ice.

"Apologize," he commanded.

I looked at him. I looked at the woman acting out a tragedy against his chest.

"No," I said.

"Katarina," he warned, his voice a low growl.

"I didn't touch her," I stated calmly, refusing to shrink back.

He sneered, disgust curling his lip. "You are jealous. It's pathetic."

He turned on his heel and carried her away toward the main house. The wives glared at me, shaking their heads in judgment, before following them like a funeral procession.

I stood alone in the mud, the silence deafening.

Later that afternoon, an announcement was made. To "compensate" Aria for her distress, Alessandro would be personally giving her private riding lessons.

I watched from the second-floor balcony.

Down in the paddock, Alessandro was adjusting Aria's grip on the reins. He was standing behind her, his chest pressed flush against her back. He whispered something in her ear, and she laughed, throwing her head back, exposing her throat.

He handed her the reins to *Obsidian*, his favorite stallion. He never let anyone ride that horse. Not even me.

A memory flashed-me, asking him to come to my ballet rehearsals. The empty seat in the front row, night after night, mocking me.

"*Dignity is more important than life,*" Donato had once told me.

Right now, my dignity was being trampled into the dirt of that paddock along with the hoofprints.

Alessandro wasn't just cheating on me. He was erasing me.

I turned away from the balcony, the image of them burned into my retinas. I needed a new strategy. I was a queen on a chessboard where the king had defected to the other side.

It was time to stop playing defense.

Katarina De Luca POV

I was walking through the corridor leading to the tack room when I saw it.

Alessandro was standing there, holding a black velvet box. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pulled out a custom-made riding helmet.

It was black, sleek, and polished to a mirror shine, with the De Luca crest engraved in silver on the side.

He placed it gently on Aria's head, fastening the strap under her chin. His fingers lingered on her jawline, a touch that was far too intimate for a simple gift.

"Perfect," he said softly.

The air left my lungs.

Three years ago, he had commissioned a similar helmet for me. It was a symbol of my acceptance into the inner circle. It was supposed to mean I belonged.

I walked to my locker. My helmet was sitting on the top shelf, covered in a thin layer of dust.

A sharp, jagged pain sliced through my chest. It wasn't just about the objects. It was the transfer of privilege. The transfer of status.

I grabbed my gear. I needed to ride. I needed to feel the wind in my face, to outrun the suffocation of this house before it crushed me completely.

I saddled the most temperamental mare in the stable, a black beast named Fury. The grooms looked at me with concern, stepping forward to assist, but I waved them off. My hands were shaking with rage as I tightened the girth, too blind with anger to double-check the equipment.

I rode into the jumping ring. Alessandro and Aria were at the far end, laughing. They didn't look up.

I urged Fury into a gallop. The rhythm of her hooves pounded against the earth, matching the frantic pounding of my heart.

There was a high oxer jump ahead. It was dangerous. It was exactly what I needed.

"Fly," I whispered.

We launched into the air. For a second, I felt weightless. I felt free.

Then, I heard a snap.

The girth strap holding my saddle gave way.

Gravity took over. The saddle slid sideways violently. I lost my stirrups.

I hit the ground hard.

The impact knocked the wind out of me. A sickening crack echoed from my right leg.

Pain exploded. It was a white-hot fire consuming my body, blinding me, stealing my voice.

I lay in the dirt, gasping for air. Through the haze of agony, I looked toward the other end of the ring.

Alessandro hadn't moved.

He was still talking to Aria. He hadn't even turned his head.

I realized then that I could die right here, and he wouldn't notice until the silence became inconvenient.

"Help!" I screamed, my voice ragged and broken.

A groom ran over, his face pale.

*

An hour later, I was in the family's private medical wing. My leg was in a cast, elevated on stiff pillows.

Alessandro finally walked in. He was holding a bouquet of generic lilies. The kind you buy at a gas station as an afterthought.

"You should be more careful," he said, placing the flowers on the bedside table. He didn't sit down.

"The saddle broke," I said, my voice devoid of emotion.

"Equipment fails." He shrugged, a dismissive roll of his broad shoulders. "I'll have the grooms check it."

He adjusted the blanket over my feet. His touch was mechanical. He was fulfilling a duty. There was no worry in his eyes, only annoyance that his afternoon had been interrupted.

"Rest," he said. "I have business."

He walked out.

That night, the pain kept me awake. I stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster.

I heard voices in the hallway.

"It's just a broken leg, Mark," Alessandro's voice drifted through the door. "She's had worse. Stop acting like it's a tragedy."

"The buckle was filed down, Alessandro." Mark's voice was low, urgent. "It wasn't an accident. Aria was seen near her tack locker this morning."

My heart stopped.

There was a silence. A long, heavy silence.

"She was just trying to teach Katarina a lesson," Alessandro said finally. "Katarina embarrassed her with the credit card thing. Let it go."

"But boss-"

"I said let it go."

Cold.

Absolute, freezing cold washed over me. It started in my toes and rushed up to my scalp.

He knew.

He knew she had sabotaged my saddle. He knew she could have killed me.

And he didn't care.

He was protecting her. He was allowing her to hunt me.

I closed my eyes. A single tear leaked out, hot against my cold skin.

I didn't wipe it away. I let it dry.

I didn't scream. I didn't throw the vase of lilies against the wall.

I lay there in the dark, and I made a promise to the ceiling.

I would not say another word about this. I would not complain. I would endure.

Because silence is the loudest scream of a woman who is done.