When the Mafia Boss Returned with a Pregnant MistressChapter 1
Avery’s POV
It was meant to mark our ninth year together—nine years sworn under candlelight and blood oaths, nine years of loyalty I had believed was unbreakable.
Instead, the doors of the penthouse palazzo swung open and Don Zachary Moretti walked in with another woman at his side.
His arm was locked around her waist in a way that was unmistakably possessive, the kind of hold men used when they wanted the room to understand ownership. Her silk dress clung to the curve of her stomach, stretched tight over a child that was undeniably his.
For almost a decade, he had made me feel untouchable.
I had been the Don’s wife—the woman whose presence silenced rooms, whose name made capos straighten their backs. He had sent black roses flown straight from Sicily, kissed my knuckles in front of rival families, and vowed in front of witnesses that there would never be another woman beside him.
And now?
Now he stood in our home—my home—displaying another woman like proof of conquest, as if betrayal were something to celebrate.
“She doesn’t handle disruption well,” Zachary said calmly, as if we were discussing business logistics instead of my life. His hand tightened around her waist while she leaned into him, chin lifted, eyes smug. “She needs stability. No repeated meals, no sleeping alone. You’ll relocate to the guest wing.”
For a moment, the world went still.
“Relocate?” My voice fractured despite my effort to hold it steady. “You betray me, put a baby in her, drag her into my home on our anniversary—and you expect me to quietly move aside? Like I was never your wife?”
His expression sharpened, the warmth vanishing instantly. “This isn’t a negotiation, Avery. You will comply.”
“No.” My hands shook as I pointed toward her. “You parade your mistress into the Don’s residence and think I’ll bow my head? Do you hear yourself? The arrogance alone should choke you.”
“I said move.”
The air shifted when he stepped closer. Don Moretti didn’t need to raise his voice—his authority crushed without effort. Years of marriage, of shared power, of silent obedience pressed down on me, trying to force my knees to bend.
But I refused to kneel for a man who had already buried our vows.
“I’m leaving,” I said, my tone hardening. “We’re done. Congratulations, Don Moretti. Enjoy your new life.”