Zero Score: My Escape from the Mafia Don

For three years, I was the wife of Don Dante Moretti. But our marriage was a transaction, and my heart was the price. I kept a ledger, deducting points for every time he chose her-his first love, Isabella-over me. When the score reached zero, I would be free.

After he abandoned me on a roadside to rush to Isabella's side, I was hit by a car. I woke up in the ER, bleeding, only to hear a nurse shout that I was two months pregnant. A tiny, impossible hope flared in my chest.

But as the doctors scrambled to save me, they patched my husband through on speakerphone. His voice was cold and absolute.

"Isabella's condition is critical," he ordered. "Not one drop of the reserve blood is to be touched until she is safe. I don't care who else needs it."

I lost the baby. Our child, sacrificed by its own father. I later learned Isabella had only suffered a minor cut. The blood was just a "precautionary measure."

The tiny flicker of hope was extinguished, and something inside me snapped, clean and final. The debt was paid.

Alone in the silence, I made the last entry in my ledger, bringing the score to zero. I signed the divorce papers I had already prepared, left them on his desk, and walked out of his life forever.

Chapter 1

Elara POV:

When the debt is paid, I am free.

I traced the opening entry in the small, black leather ledger. One hundred points. That was the value I had placed on my marriage to Dante Moretti. For every betrayal, every humiliation, every moment he chose her over me, I deducted points.

The heavy oak door of his study creaked open. Dante stood there, a titan in a bespoke suit, his presence a gravitational force, pulling all the air toward him. He was the undisputed Don of the Chicago Outfit, a man who commanded legions with a flick of his wrist, a man whose dark intensity had captivated me since I was a girl. A man who was my husband.

His eyes, the color of storm clouds, landed on the book in my hands.

"What is that?" His voice was low, devoid of warmth, the same tone he used with his soldiers before sending them to their deaths.

I held it out. He took it, his long, scarred fingers brushing against mine. A shiver I couldn't control ran up my arm. He flipped through the pages, his expression unreadable as his gaze fell upon the entries.

He missed our first anniversary-a public affair-to fly to Isabella's side. A humiliation before the entire Family.

He abandoned me on a deserted highway with a single Soldier because Isabella faked a threat from a rival crew.

He lost the Moretti heirloom wedding ring, distracted by her call. A terrible omen for our house.

He read a few, his lip curling in a faint sneer. He handed it back to me, the leather cool against my skin.

"Keep your personal effects out of my study, Elara. This is where I conduct business for the Family."

My gaze swept over the room. It was a museum dedicated to another woman. A priceless Ming vase he'd bought for Isabella because she'd once admired it in a magazine. A framed photo of her on the deck of his yacht, laughing. A small, silver locket on his desk that I knew held her picture. I was just another one of his possessions, and an unwanted one at that.

The secure line on his desk rang, a harsh, demanding sound. He answered, his back to me.

"What is it?"

A voice crackled on the other end, one of his Capos. "Boss, the warehouse on Cermak. It's on fire. A gift from the O'Malley crew. Isabella... she was supposed to be there tonight for inventory."

Dante's body went rigid. When he turned, his features had sharpened into a mask of cold, terrifying fury. He grabbed his keys from the desk, his movements sharp and violent. He didn't even glance at me as he stormed out.

Some desperate, stupid flicker of hope made me follow. I took a taxi, watching his armored sedan blow through a dozen red lights, a dark missile tearing through the city.

The warehouse was an inferno, orange flames punching holes in the night sky. Firefighters and his own men were shouting, forming a human wall to hold him back.

"It's too dangerous, Boss! You can't go in there!"

Dante shoved them aside. He turned to his Underboss, his voice a low roar that carried over the chaos. "If Isabella doesn't walk out of there, I will burn this city to the ground."

Then he was gone, swallowed by the flames.

His Capos surrounded me, their expressions a mixture of pity and contempt.

"He's always been like this about her," one of them said, not unkindly. "Built half his empire just to win her back."

Another one snickered. "She's his queen. Always has been."

They were twisting the knife, reminding me of my place. The placeholder wife. The consolation prize.

I remembered the day he'd asked my father, his father's most trusted Consigliere, for my hand. My father was on his deathbed. Dante had just learned that Isabella, his first and only love, had married a civilian, a man outside their world. A Don needed a wife. My father secured a promise from Dante: marry my daughter, protect her. An honorable pact. I had been naive enough to believe it was love.

Now I knew the truth. He married me because his queen had abdicated her throne.

An eternity later, a figure emerged from the inferno. Dante. He was carrying an unconscious Isabella in his arms, his suit smoldering, his face blackened with soot. He laid her gently on a gurney before collapsing himself.

At the hospital, a Moretti-controlled fortress, the doctor gave his report.

"The Don has severe burns on his back and arms, but he'll live. Ms. Vance is perfectly fine, just a little smoke inhalation."

His men tried to comfort me, reminding me of the Moretti name, the power, the wealth. As if money could stitch a heart back together.

I excused myself, the polite, perfect Don's wife to the very end.

Back in the cold silence of the Moretti estate, I walked into the study that felt more like her room than his. I opened the ledger.

My hand was steady as I wrote the new entry beneath the last.

Minus five points.

Elara POV:

The next morning, I met with a lawyer. His office was a cramped, windowless room with no name on the door, and the man himself looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. For a divorce, taking on the Moretti Family wasn't just a bad career move; it was professional suicide.

"I want you to draft a divorce petition," I said, my voice even. "And a non-disclosure agreement. I want nothing from him. I just want to be free."

He swallowed hard. "Mrs. Moretti, are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything."

I left his office and drove to the hospital. The soup I'd had the cook prepare felt heavy in my hands, a useless offering. Dante's private suite was guarded by two of his most loyal men. They nodded at me, their faces grim, and let me pass.

The scene inside stole the air from my lungs.

Isabella was perched on the edge of his bed, fussing with the bandages on his arm. She was clumsy, making him wince.

"Oh, Dante, I'm so sorry," she cried, plump tears tracing paths down her perfect cheeks. "Does it hurt terribly?"

"It's nothing," he soothed, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it. He caught her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles.

"The doctor said..." she sniffled, "he said the burns are deep. You might have permanent nerve damage. A weakness a Don can't afford to show."

"It doesn't matter," Dante said, his eyes locked on her. "I was already planning to step back from public operations. It has nothing to do with the fire." He paused, his gaze turning distant. "There was this legitimate business I wanted to start, years ago. An architectural firm. You once said you admired a man who ran one. I thought... I thought you remembered."

Isabella's breath hitched. She fell into his arms, burying her face in his uninjured shoulder. "Oh, Dante."

He held her, his good arm wrapping around her, holding her tight. For a moment, he closed his eyes, a look of profound, agonizing peace on his face.

The soup container slipped from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor. Neither of them so much as flinched.

I backed away-a ghost in my own marriage-and slipped out of the room unseen.

At the hospital entrance, a group of Dante's most trusted Soldiers stopped me. They looked grave.

"Mrs. Moretti," the one in charge said, his voice low and formal. He handed me a sealed manila envelope. "The Don had standing orders. In the event he was... incapacitated, this was to be delivered to you. Immediately."

"Of course," I murmured.

I waited until I was back in my car to open it. It was a detailed strategic plan, a complete restructuring of the Moretti empire. It outlined a shift toward legitimate businesses, with a new, massive investment in a high-end architectural design and construction firm. It was brilliant, ruthless, and visionary.

And it was all contingent on one thing.

I read the final line of the executive summary, the words blurring through my tears.

"With the return of my true north, the final phase of the Moretti revitalization can now commence."

His true north. Isabella.

I finally understood. His empire, his ambition, his entire world was built for her.

I had never even been on the map.

Elara POV:

"I'm leaving him."

The words felt foreign on my tongue, spoken over the phone to my old architecture professor. She didn't sound surprised.

"Good," was all she said. "Your portfolio is still the most brilliant I've ever seen. The world needs your buildings, Elara. Where will you go?"

"Somewhere new," I said, a spark of something I hadn't felt in years igniting in the hollow of my chest. "I'm starting my own firm."

In the days that followed, I turned an unused wing of the sprawling, cold estate into a vibrant studio. I unrolled my old blueprints, the passion I had sacrificed to be the perfect Don's wife flooding back into me. The scent of graphite and paper was like coming home.

On our third wedding anniversary-a date the entire Chicago Outfit acknowledged-Dante found me there, sketching, my world narrowed to the page. He stood in the doorway for a long time, watching me.

"I'm relaunching my career," I told him without looking up. "I won't be available to host your business dinners anymore."

A flicker of something-annoyance? surprise?-crossed his face. "Of course," he said, the support in his voice hollow. "It's good for you to have a hobby."

A hobby. The word wasn't just a dismissal-it was a pat on the head. I almost asked him then if he'd support a divorce, but his phone rang. He disappeared into his study. I heard her voice, sharp and demanding, even through the thick oak door.

That evening, he surprised me.

"Get dressed," he said. "We're going to dinner." A rare gesture. A peace offering for my "hobby," perhaps.

He dropped me at the entrance of a lavish new restaurant, a Moretti acquisition, while he went to park his car. The valet rushed to open my door.

When Dante returned, he was holding a small, elegantly wrapped designer gift box and a massive bouquet of pink roses. A wild, foolish hope flared to life in my chest. He handed them to me.

"Happy anniversary," he murmured, his eyes unreadable.

Just then, Isabella appeared at the restaurant's entrance, a vision in red. She sauntered toward Dante, her hand landing possessively on his arm.

"Dante, darling, you came." She turned to me, her smile pure saccharine. "You must be Elara. Dante talks so much about his... arrangement."

Before I could react, Dante took the gift box from my hands and gave it to Isabella.

"A small token for your grand opening," he said, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. Then, he plucked the bouquet from my grasp. "And flowers for the new proprietress."

Isabella gasped with delight, burying her face in the roses. "Oh, Dante! You remembered! This specific florist, the exact shade of pink I love!"

The hope that had flared in my chest didn't just die. It was doused in gasoline and set ablaze.

The gifts, the dinner, the entire evening-it was all for her.

I was just the delivery service.