My Mafia Husband Only Fucks Virgins. So I Married The Don. Chapter 03
The Second Floor
The Peninsula is on fire tonight.
Half the city is packed into the lobby, dripping in diamonds, pretending they came for the champagne.
They came for him.
Everyone in this room would sell their firstborn just to be photographed in the same frame as Dante Salvatore. One handshake with the Don, and your business is untouchable for a decade.
I step through the doors, and heads turn. The red dress does its job.
The second floor is roped off. Two men in black suits at the base of the stairs. That’s my destination.
I’m three steps in when the noise behind me swells.
Sienna.
She’s in white, floor-length, hanging off Lorenzo’s arm like a bride at the wrong wedding. His eyes find me across the room. He arches an eyebrow.
I know that look.
He’s waiting for me to break. To flush. To disappear into the bathroom the way I used to when I was twenty and stupid.
I look right through him.
I gather my hem and step right through a puddle of spilled wine, straight toward the staircase.
His hand clamps down on my wrist so hard my bones grind.
“Are you out of your mind?” Lorenzo hisses into my ear. “Do you know whose floor that is?”
His grip tightens.
“You want to walk into Salvatore’s territory? You want to die? Fine. Don’t drag the Moretti name down with you. Remember where your father is sleeping tonight, Elena. Don’t make me remind you.”
My family. My father. Don’t make me.
He still thinks that’s the leash.
I look down at his fingers wrapped around my wrist. Something in me curdles.
I rip my arm free. Reach out. Snatch a glass of red wine off a passing waiter’s tray.
I throw it in his face.
The wine sheets down his forehead, over the bridge of his nose, over the mouth I used to kiss. It drips off his chin onto his six-figure shirt.
The whole lobby inhales at once.
Lorenzo is frozen. I’m not.
I pull a wet wipe out of my clutch. Slow. Deliberate. I dab at his jaw where he touched me, cleaning him off my skin, inch by inch, in front of every camera in the room.
“Lorenzo.”
I let the wipe drop.
“Get over yourself. My lawyer will hand-deliver the divorce papers to your office in the morning.”
The silence lasts one full second.
Then Lorenzo laughs.
Low at first. Then loud. Then ugly. He throws his head back like I just told him the funniest joke of the century. Behind him, Sienna covers her mouth, shoulders shaking, laughing right along with him.
“Divorce?”
He steps forward, looming over me.
“Sweetheart. I pay for your father’s hospital bed. I own your brother’s contracts. I own every scrap of the Ricci name that’s still standing.”
He tilts his head. That cruel little smile.
“You think one glass of wine and a big speech buys you a seat at the table? I’ve seen this act a hundred times. It’s just another jealous tantrum.”
Somewhere behind his eyes, he’s already sure he’s won.
He pulls out his phone. In front of me. In front of everyone.
He dials.
“St. Michael’s? Yeah. This is Lorenzo Moretti.”
His voice is quiet. Every word is a nail into my temple.
“Room 1207. Elio Ricci. Effective now, cancel his private care. Stop the meds. Move him to the general ward tonight.”
He hangs up. Watches me. Waiting for the crack. Waiting for the tears. Waiting for me to fall on my knees the way I used to, whispering Lorenzo, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I was wrong.
Sienna glides forward. Tugs my sleeve, sugar-sweet.
“Elena. Come on. Just kneel. Just once. Kiss the floor and say sorry, and I’ll ask Lorenzo to be gentle with your daddy. Okay?”
Lorenzo doesn’t stop her.
He’s enjoying it.
I don’t even look at her.
I pull out my phone. Dial.
“Dr. Bellini. It’s Elena Ricci.”
I hear him straighten up on the other end.
“I need a transport team at St. Michael’s. Tonight. My father, Elio Ricci. Move him to your private wing. Best suite. Best team. Bill everything to my personal account.”
“Miss Ricci. Twenty minutes. I’ll oversee it myself.”
I hang up. Slip the phone back into my clutch.
Lorenzo’s smile is gone. His pupils shrink.
“Elena. Where the fuck did you get that kind of money—”
He lunges. Grabs my arm. Starts dragging me toward the exit.
He doesn’t get two steps.
Because behind me, at the top of the staircase, the heavy double doors of the second-floor suite are opening.
Slow.
Silent.
And every head in the lobby turns.
The man who steps out isn’t Dante Salvatore.
It’s the man who stands at his right side. Black three-piece suit. Earpiece. The kind of face that doesn’t smile for anyone under nine figures.
Marco. Dante’s underboss.
In this city, there are maybe five people important enough for Marco to walk down a set of stairs to greet in person.
The lobby goes dead quiet.
He stops in front of me. Bows. Deep, precise, respectful — the kind of bow reserved for someone who matters.
He holds out a black keycard. Solid black. Gold trim. No writing.
The top-floor suite.
“Miss Ricci. Mr. Salvatore is waiting for you. Please.”