The crackling sound of my tibia was louder than my scream. He looked at me—the wife he had sworn to love—with disgust, then coldly dragged me down into the dark cellar. Just because I dared to confront his mistress, that seemingly respectable director had revealed himself to be a ruthless devil.
“Think carefully down here,” he snarled, slamming the cellar door shut, leaving me with my broken leg and the darkness engulfing me.
He thought I was just a docile doll. He forgot (or never truly knew) that the blood flowing in my veins wasn’t easily subdued. My father wasn’t just an ordinary businessman. He was a Mafia boss—a man even the authorities feared.
It wasn’t until the roar of the black cars surrounding the mansion, and the sound of the front door being smashed open by cold-blooded men in black suits, that my husband began to tremble.
I sat in the darkness, hearing my father’s familiar footsteps pounding on the wooden floor above. I smiled faintly through the excruciating pain. By the time he realized whose “wrong scale” he had touched, it would be too late.
“He who hurts my daughter,” my father’s voice, low but powerful, echoed from the cellar door, “will wish he had never been born.”
Moments earlier, I had confronted his mistress, Jessica Crowe, in our living room after finding her perfume on Ethan’s shirt. She had smirked, smug and careless. I had raised my voice. Ethan had snapped.
Now I lay on the cold floor, unable to move my left leg. The bone throbbed beneath the skin.
“You argue with Jessica again,” Ethan said, breathing hard, “and next time it won’t just be your leg.”
He grabbed me by the arms, dragging me down the basement stairs one slow, agonizing step at a time. Each bump sent another lightning bolt of pain through my body. I couldn’t fight—not with a broken leg, not with him towering over me.
He shoved me into the basement and slammed the door. I heard the padlock click.
“You stay here,” he shouted through the door. “Think about how you ruined tonight.”
The footsteps faded upstairs.
I lay on the floor, shaking, breathing shallow. The basement smelled of dust, old wood, and damp cement—a place where forgotten things went to rot.
Ethan thought he had trapped me.
He thought I was powerless.
But Ethan didn’t know who my father was.
My maiden name, Carina Moretti, wasn’t something I spoke often since marrying him. Ethan knew I was estranged from my family, but he never bothered to ask why.
He certainly didn’t know that my father was Vincenzo Moretti, one of the most feared mafia bosses on the East Coast before he retired quietly to Florida.
He didn’t know the kind of training my father insisted his daughters have—the private security lessons, the survival drills, the rules of control and silence.
Ethan also didn’t know that the necklace I always wore contained a tiny GPS panic chip.
My father had given it to me before I married Ethan.
“In case the world forgets kindness,” he had said.
I pressed the pendant between my trembling fingers. The click was small, almost inaudible.
Signal sent.
My father would receive it within minutes.
I wiped the wetness from my face—not tears, but the sharp sweat of rage crystallizing beneath my skin.
Ethan thought he had broken me.
But all he had done was open a door I never intended to use.
My revenge had begun the moment the pendant clicked.
And by the time Ethan realized what he had done—
it would already be far too late……
