My Mafia Husband Gave Her Couture—And Me Her Scraps Chapter 01
My mafia husband, Dante, gave every last one of those three out-of-print Paris couture gowns to Sienna—then took a shred of scrap lace from the hem of her dress and made it into my wedding veil.
All because, seven years ago, he’d decided I was the one who stole Sienna’s spot at the Paris art residency.
On paper, I’d been his wife for seven years.
Now, at long last, he’d agreed to hold the ceremony—to have the Moretti family formally recognize me—and all he was willing to spare me was a strip of trim she’d thrown away.
Three days later, at the wedding.
The family elder let a silver key sink to the bottom of the frozen lake and told me to dive in and bring it back up myself.
“Only by opening the ring casket and letting the Don slip the ring onto your finger can you become a Donna the Moretti family truly acknowledges.”
Seven years I’d waited for this ceremony.
Everyone was waiting for me to jump.
But I only stood at the edge of the lake, watching the key sink out of sight. I didn’t move.
…
When the key went under, the surface rippled once, dark and slow, then went still.
Seeing me hesitate, the crowd’s jeering trailed off.
The elder held up the ring casket, his smile freezing in place. He glanced at the bodyguard behind me.
The bodyguard behind me had his hand pressed to his earpiece. A second later, a soft woman’s voice leaked from it.
“Push her a little closer. Tonight everyone should see just how badly she wants this seat.”
My fingers clenched around the skirt of my gown.
I heard it, clear as day.
That voice was Sienna’s.
The family members around me started muttering, urging me on:
“Jump already. Don’t waste our time.”
“Didn’t you train a whole month for this? Seven years married to the Don, and now that Moretti’s finally acknowledging you, you’re losing your nerve?”
“The key’s right there at the bottom. Bring it up, open the casket—that’s the only way you become the real Donna.”
Of course I’d trained.
Seven years I’d waited for this wedding, and I’d practiced in that icy water twenty-seven times.
Every single time, I nearly drowned.
The last time, I made it. But when I finally grasped the key and climbed onto the bank, I saw Dante holding Sienna tight in his arms. He told me:
“Don’t come closer. You look a mess—you’ll frighten Sienna.”
Now, I stood at the edge of the lake. I didn’t move.
At last, Dante looked at me.
At the cuffs of his black suit gleamed a pair of silver cufflinks. I’d given them to him last year. He’d called them cheap; he’d never worn them.
The only reason he wore them today was because Sienna had made an offhand compliment about them.
“Elena.”
His voice was low, weighted—a warning not to embarrass him.
Sienna, wrapped in a cashmere shawl, rested her fingertips lightly on Dante’s cuff.
“Elena, are you having second thoughts? If you don’t want to jump for Dante’s sake, it’s alright. Dante won’t hold it against you.”
He didn’t pull his arm away. He just looked at me, his voice cold.
“This is Moretti tradition. If you want my family to acknowledge you, bring back the key.”
Tradition.
He knew I’d spent a whole month practicing in that freezing water for this wedding.
And still he was using the lake, the key, a ceremony seven years overdue, to prove whether I was worthy of standing beside him.
I took half a step back.
The elder pressed me:
“Madam, no Moretti Donna has ever earned her place through a piece of paper. The guards in the water are ready. Nothing will happen to you.”
The earpiece behind me leaked another voice:
“Have the guards fall back beyond the safety line. And drop the key deeper. She’s had practice—she won’t die.”
“Tell the photographer not to miss the shot when she comes out. I want every one of them to see just how low she’ll stoop for that title.”
I looked toward the far end of the shore.
The family photographer was already stationed in the best spot.
He wasn’t shooting the chapel. He wasn’t shooting the guests. His lens was fixed on the frozen lake at my feet.
Dante raised his wrist and checked his watch.
“You’ve got ten minutes. Bring back the key.”
I stood in the wind off the lake, shoulders bare, my skirt soaked with slush, my ankles numb with cold. A servant started toward me with a blanket. A single look from Dante stopped her.
“She chose this.”
I’d been hearing that line for seven years.
I fell sick from the cold—I’d chosen it.
I took the blame for Sienna—I’d chosen it.
I kept an empty house for him for seven years—I’d chosen that too.
And in that moment, it struck me how ridiculous it all was—how I’d spent a whole month risking my life over and over, just so I could stand beside him.
The so-called family tradition was nothing but a veneer of decency thrown over humiliation.
I didn’t step into the lake. I turned and walked away.
Behind me, Dante’s cold voice followed: “Elena, if you walk out of here today, don’t come back begging.”
A maid ran after me and pressed a paper cup into my hand. “Madam, the master had the kitchen prepare hot tea for you.”
My steps slowed.
The next instant, another maid hurried past me with a silver tray.
Hot honeyed tea. A cashmere throw. A thermometer. A hand warmer… And the family physician trailing along behind.
“Quickly—Miss Sienna sneezed. The Don wants to feed her the tea himself.”
I looked down at the paper cup in my hand. So even his concern came in tiers.
I set the tea back on the tray without drinking it.
Behind me the water was black and deep. The key was sunk at the bottom, like the recognition I’d waited seven years for.
This time, I didn’t look back.
I walked to the chapel’s side room, took out my phone, and called my lawyer.
“Draft me a divorce agreement.”
“I want to divorce Dante Moretti. As soon as possible.”