My Mafia Husband Only Fucks Virgins. So I Married The Don. Chapter 01
The Reset
My Mafia husband has a twisted ritual: he only fucks eighteen-year-old virgins.
Two rules. No exceptions.
Every morning after, Lorenzo sends me a text with a name, an address, and a time. Then I drive his new mistress to the clinic and hand my black card to the receptionist.
Today’s girl is Sienna. Eighteen, blonde, glowing in the passenger seat of my Bentley.
“Lorenzo said he’s never come that hard in his life,” she says, smiling right at me.
“Kinda sad, right? Eight years of marriage and he had to wait for me to know what it’s supposed to feel like.”
I keep my hands on the wheel.Steady.
She launches into the details. How many times last night. Which positions. What he whispered.
She wants me to flinch. She wants me to cry.
I don’t.
I used to.
Seven years ago I clawed at his chest and screamed until my voice broke, and all he did was straighten his cufflinks and say,
”Elena, don’t embarrass your father. He’s still waiting on the Westside deal. Be a good wife. Sit pretty. I’ll come home when I’m bored.”
I glance down at my phone. There’s a confirmation email open on the screen.
A private appointment. My own name. The same procedure I’m about to buy for the girl next to me.
This city is full of dangerous men. Lorenzo Moretti isn’t the only one with a checkbook and a body count.
Tonight, I’m crawling into the Don’s bed.
—
Sienna’s still talking. She leans in close, dropping her voice low and sugary.
“Elena. Eight years married. Seven years he hasn’t touched you. What’s even the point of being his wife?”
She pats her stomach with two fingers.
“He said he’s gonna put a baby in me.”
I almost laugh out loud.
If a single word out of Lorenzo’s mouth was true, hell would be an ice rink.
Eight years ago, when my family’s empire went up in flames and the Ricci name was choking on ash, Lorenzo stood in front of every camera in the city and swore, It’s Elena or no one.
I was eighteen. I thought he was saving me.
One year later, he was already sleeping with a new eighteen-year-old every month.
When I lost it in the back office of his club, when I screamed why, he just swirled his whiskey and said it lazy, like he was bored:
“Elena. No girl stays eighteen forever, sweetheart. But there’s always a new eighteen-year-old.”
That’s the day I stopped loving him.
I didn’t leave because I couldn’t. He pays for my father’s hospital bed. He owns my brother’s contracts. He holds the deed to what’s left of the Ricci name.
So I drive his girls to clinics. I write the checks. I clean up when he gets bored and they get loud.
But this city is packed with men more powerful than Lorenzo. Deadlier than Lorenzo. Men who make Lorenzo drop his eyes and shut his mouth.
Speaking of.
One name lives rent-free in my head.
Dante Salvatore.
The only man on this coast who makes my husband lower his eyes and mumble sir.
The Don. The King. The man everyone in this city bows to whether they know it or not.
The first time I saw him across a ballroom, I made a decision.
If a woman in this world has to stand next to a dangerous man to survive, then I’m not settling for the middle of the pack.
I’m going to the top.
—
I look down at my phone again. Under the appointment, there’s a folder.Six months of work from the best private investigator money can buy.
Every one of Dante’s tastes. Every one of his rules. The kind of woman he brings to a gala, to a sit-down, to a family dinner. The way he likes them to behave.
I’ve memorized all of it.
For six months, I’ve been building the trap.
I show up at the racetrack he owns a piece of, and I never once look his way. I buy the antiques he wants at auction, then donate them anonymously to his foundation. I stay in his line of sight and just out of his reach.
Last month, one of his men followed me on Instagram and sent me a private DM.
Everything’s in place. All I need is tonight.
The surgery today isn’t just for Sienna.
I booked one for myself.
I’m not walking into Dante Salvatore’s world as Lorenzo’s used-up wife. I’m walking in fresh. New. Untouched.
The Bentley rolls to a stop in front of the clinic. Sienna’s already fluttering her lashes at the valet, playing fragile.
I turn off the engine and check my reflection in the rearview.
The woman staring back doesn’t look tired anymore.
She looks hungry.