My Mafia Husband Gave Her Couture—And Me Her Scraps Chapter 04
At noon, the Moretti family gathered for lunch. Sienna sat at Dante’s right hand—the seat that belonged to the wife.
She slid into it the way someone slides into a chair they’ve taken a hundred times before.
I was placed at the far end of the long table.
No flowers in front of me. Even my place setting was short a dessert fork.
When the servants brought out the soup, they swapped Sienna’s bowl for a fresh, hot one first. By the time they got to me, mine had gone cold.
Dante’s mother, Margherita, sat at the head, her gaze fixed on her wine glass. She wouldn’t waste so much as a glance on me.
“Elena, the Morettis are giving you a chance to bury last night’s mess only out of respect for how long Blackwood has honored the blood pact. Don’t push your luck.”
Sienna murmured, “Signora Moretti, Elena was just too upset last night. She waited seven years for that wedding—a moment’s lapse in composure is understandable.”
At last, Signora Moretti smiled.
“At least Sienna knows when to protect the family’s dignity.”
The steward brought out a black velvet case.
Inside was the emerald brooch reserved for the Moretti matriarch—the piece only a Donna acknowledged by the family had any right to wear.
Only a woman recognized as the Don’s Donna could pin it on and stand at his side.
Margherita’s eyes went straight to Sienna.
“The memorial for Dante’s father is this afternoon. You’ll wear it and stand with him in the front row.”
Sienna refused at once.
“That wouldn’t be right, Signora. It’s meant for the Donna.”
Dante said, “It suits you. Wear it.”
The whole table went quiet for a beat, then broke into low, knowing laughter.
I gripped my glass and said nothing. At last Dante looked at me, brow furrowed.
“She’s only borrowing it, Elena. Don’t make this ugly.”
Sienna’s eyes reddened. “If Elena minds, I don’t have to wear it. I don’t want her thinking I’ve taken something from her.”
Dante’s voice went colder still. “She doesn’t mind.”
The steward pinned the emerald to Sienna’s chest.
The stone glinted cold under the light—like the last shred of dignity they were peeling off me.
The Moretti family cemetery sat just behind the estate. After lunch, everyone made their way there.
Sienna, still wearing her new brooch, took her place at Dante’s side.
When the tributes were done, Signora Moretti stood before the grave and turned to look at me.
“Kneel.”
“Before the old Godfather’s headstone, before the whole Moretti family, apologize to Sienna. The Paris residency, last night’s wedding—it ends here.”
I looked at Dante. His eyes were as cold as ever.
Sienna said softly, “Elena, an apology won’t kill you.”
Dante lowered his voice.
“Do it. After today, your standing will be formally recognized.”
“Don’t push this to a place where I can’t clean it up for you.”
Margherita said icily:
“If you want to be a Donna acknowledged by this family, learn to bow your head in front of it first.”
Suddenly I found it funny.
The year of the Paris residency, Sienna had walked away from her final interview on her own. Then she’d gone to Dante and told him I’d stolen her one chance.
I’d explained. Dante told me only guilty people scramble to defend themselves.
And so for seven years, he’d used it to freeze me out, to punish me, to humiliate me.
Now they didn’t even want the truth anymore.
All they wanted was for me to kneel.
My silence drew satisfied murmurs from the family members behind me. Even Dante’s breathing seemed to ease. Every single one of them thought I’d cave, the way I always had.
The next moment, I drew the old kraft envelope from my coat’s inner pocket.
Margherita’s face went white.
She knew exactly what it was.
The Blackwoods and the Morettis each held one half of the blood pact.
Blackwood controlled the East River docks, the Red Hook warehouse district, the dockworkers’ union, and the safe transport lines recognized by the East Coast Families’ Council.
That blood pact wasn’t just about my marriage to Dante.
It was Moretti’s key to the East Coast.
Dante stepped forward, fast.
“Elena, what have you got there?”
I didn’t look at him. I flicked a lighter and touched it to the pact.
The flame leapt up.
Dante lunged to snatch it back, and got only half a page of charred paper—my name still legible at the top.
Elena Blackwood.
Below that, half-burned, the clause I’d made sure of—
Should Elena Blackwood personally file for dissolution of the marriage, the Blackwood–Moretti blood pact shall be null and void immediately. The Moretti family may not pursue redress under any claim of blood debt, restitution, vengeance, or family arbitration.
Dante’s hand went still.
For the first time, Signora Moretti lost her composure. “Stop her!”
I unfastened the bracelet from my wrist and dropped it onto the ashes too.
Dante had given it to me the year he turned eighteen.
Seven years I’d worn it. It had left a pale, thin band around my wrist.
Dante’s gaze landed on that empty ring of white skin. His voice was no longer that cold, cutting thing—for the first time, it cracked open.
“Elena. Put it back on.”
I raised my head and looked at him.
“Dante. You’ve always wanted me to admit I was wrong.”
“So I’ll admit it.”
“I was wrong to believe you’d ever, someday, treat me as your wife.”
“You only ever saw me as a contract Moretti held. For one offhand lie from Sienna, you looked past me for seven years.”
“Dante Moretti. Let’s get a divorce.”
“As of this moment, on behalf of the Blackwood family, I formally dissolve the blood pact with the Morettis.”