My Mafia Husband Only Fucks Virgins. So I Married The Don. Chapter 07
Can’t Compare
After that night, the whole city knows.
Elena Ricci is Dante Salvatore’s woman.
Not a fling. Not a plaything. His.
I’m not Mrs. Moretti anymore. I’m the only woman photographed on his arm. The only woman his men bow to. The only woman his enemies are now afraid of.
Lorenzo calls me like a madman.
Cursing. Threatening. Then begging. Then asking, small and hollow, why.
I don’t pick up. Not one.
He can’t figure it out. In his head, I was a plaything. Something he owned. And playthings don’t get to climb into the Don’s bed. Playthings don’t get to sit at the top of the food chain, looking down at him.
Sienna crashes faster than I planned.
—
Two nights later. A private dinner thrown by an Italian jewelry brand at a rooftop restaurant. Old money. Bulletproof glass. Every made man in the city plus their wives.
Sienna slips in on a plus-one she probably paid for.
Same wounded-kitten act. Different dress. But this time there’s something desperate under it — a raw, twitchy panic in her eyes.
She grabs a flute of champagne off a passing tray and starts moving.
Straight for Dante.
I know the play before she does. Fake trip. Spill the champagne on his suit. Fall into his arms. Cry pretty. Start over as his eighteen-year-old.
She doesn’t get within six feet of him.
Marco steps into her path like a wall. Doesn’t touch her. Doesn’t have to.
Dante doesn’t even glance up. He picks up his knife and cuts into the steak on my plate. Slow. Precise. Feeds me the first bite off the tip of his fork like we’re alone in the room.
Sienna is frozen. The whole restaurant is watching. Every waiter has stopped moving.
She tries one more time. Voice shaking, going for soft and sweet.
“Mr. Salvatore. I just wanted to offer a toast—”
Dante finally lifts his eyes.
He drags them up her body. Slow. Head to toe. Not desire — inspection. The way a man looks at spoiled fruit.
Then he turns his head toward me. And his whole face changes. Softens. A tiny curl at the corner of his mouth. Something warm, just for me.
He leans in. Voice low. But not low enough. Loud enough for the front three tables to catch every syllable.
“Trying to copy her, sweetheart?”
Beat.
“You don’t even come close.”
The whole rooftop goes silent.
Sienna’s face drops. Every drop of color leaves it. Her champagne flute is trembling so hard the liquid slops onto her wrist.
Ten tables over, Lorenzo is standing.
His face is a solid, mottled purple. His eyes cut from Dante, to me, to Sienna — and land on Sienna like she’s the reason his entire world just collapsed.
He crosses the room in six long strides. Grabs her wrist so hard the flute shatters on the floor. Drags her off the terrace, into the corridor by the elevators.
The doors don’t quite close.
The slap cracks through the whole restaurant.
Sienna’s cry. Sharp. Broken. Muffled by his palm across her mouth.
“You worthless little—”
I pick up my wine. Swirl it. Take a slow sip.
Vintage. Full-bodied. Delicious.
—
Two days later, Sienna shows up at my gates.
No makeup. Hair a mess. Finger marks on her cheek in the shape of Lorenzo’s hand. Split lip.
She stands on the driveway. Looks up at me the way she used to look at Lorenzo. Small. Cracked.
“Elena…”
She’s crying before the word is out.
“I was wrong. I know I was wrong.”
“He beat me. He froze every card. He threw me out with what I was wearing.”
She sinks to her knees on my driveway. Grabs the hem of my dress like a drowning woman grabs a rope.
“Please. Please just tell Dante to make him stop. That’s it. That’s all I’m asking. One word from him and Lorenzo won’t touch me again—”
I look down at her.
Nothing moves in me. Nothing.
“You think you were special?”
I crouch. Just enough to be eye-level with her. Just enough to make sure she hears every syllable.
“You were one of dozens, Sienna. There were girls before you. There will be girls after you. Younger. Prettier. Cheaper.”
I lean in a little closer.
“I threw him out with the trash. You picked him up and called him a prize. Now the trash bit you and you’re on my driveway crying?”
I peel her fingers off my dress. One at a time.
She collapses onto the concrete. The sobs come out ugly. High. Broken.
Sob to whimper. Whimper to nothing.
Then she goes quiet.
She pushes herself up. Wipes her face on the back of her hand. Turns to leave.
She’s three steps toward the gate when she stops.
She turns back. Her eyes are red. Wet. And something else. Something poisonous. Something she’s been holding onto.
“Elena. Before I go. There’s one thing you should know.”
Her lip is shaking.
“One night Lorenzo was drunk. Really drunk. He was holding me and he said — he said the fire eight years ago, the one at your family’s warehouse—”
She swallows.
“He said it burned real pretty. Shame it didn’t take the rest of you with it.”