Happy Rape Anniversary, My Ex Mafia Husband

I thought the orchestrated assault was the most profound betrayal of my life.

Then, from the shadows of the wine cellar, I heard my husband and his brothers toasting to my Rape Anniversary.

But they overlooked one ancient law—the Moretti blood oath: should the Don betray his vows, everything becomes his wife's.

On the night of our sacred vow marriage, everyone among Chicago's elite knew that the Valenti daughter had been with multiple men.

Yet Dante Moretti solemnly swore before the priest: "On my father's grave and the honor of the Moretti family, I vow to marry no one but her in this lifetime."

But after the wedding, he and his mistress occupied the master bedroom while I was relegated to the guest room.

I endured this humiliation in silence, telling myself it was the punishment I deserved.

Until tonight, at 2 AM, while organizing wine bottles in the cellar.

Car engines rumbled overhead, followed by men's laughter. Dante was back, with guests.

"Come on, brothers, let's grab a drink at my bar," came Dante's voice, slurred with alcohol.

My heart raced. The bar was right next door, separated by just one wall.

"Dante, this Grappa's not bad," said a gravelly voice.

My blood turned to ice. I recognized that voice.

"Let's celebrate the perfect wrap-up of our little movie six months ago," Dante said, the sound of glass clinking as he opened bottles.

Little movie? What film?

A terrible thought flashed through my mind, but I couldn't bring myself to believe it.

I gripped my wine glass so tightly my nails dug into my palms.

"Honestly, Dante, your wife that night... I've been with plenty of women, but she was something special. So tight, so sweet, she was soaking wet before I even got inside."

The glass nearly slipped from my hands. My body began to shake.

"No... please stop..." Those words cut through me like knives.

I thought those memories had been buried, but now they were just entertainment for them.

"And those tits of hers were incredible. The look on her face during it—half ashamed, half turned on, tears streaming down. I almost came on her face," a third voice chimed in, high and grating.

The world began to spin. Fragmented images flooded back: camera flashes, leering grins, bruises. Every single thing had been planned.

"Great camera presence, really. That close-up—her climax in slow motion with those desperate whimpers, pure art. If we hadn't been following your script, I would've shot a few more scenes," another man spoke up.

Script...

So my pain, my tears, my despair—all of it had followed their written script. Was I an actress?

No. I was a prop.

"Art? She's just a whore. You guys could do whatever you wanted, she deserved every bit of it," Dante said with contempt.

I closed my eyes, remembering how he held me that night: "Don't be afraid, I'm here."

Those words had been the only light in my darkness, making me believe someone actually cared about me.

Now I understood—he was just checking the quality of his "production."

"Boss, when you 'rescued' her, you touched her, right? Did she feel as good as we said?"

"She reeked of you guys. Just touching her made me sick. If I hadn't needed photos for evidence, I wouldn't have laid a finger on her."

"You timed your 'arrival' perfectly that night. Calculated it down to the minute," the gravelly voice said admiringly.

"Of course. If you're going to put on a show, you do it right. Too early and it looks fake, too late and real damage happens," Dante chuckled coldly. "Perfect timing, lucky break."

All those "coincidences" I had believed in—when he appeared, when the ambulance arrived—had all been part of his calculation.

I slid down against the wine rack, my whole body trembling.

My breath tasted metallic—I had bitten through my lip.

"The old man thought a sacred vow could bind me? Force me to marry that Valenti trophy wife because of some deathbed promise? Fine, I'll marry her. But I have ways of making her 'voluntarily' disappear."

Sacred vow.

I looked at my ring—the Moretti wolf crest on black obsidian.

Sacred promises were just loopholes to him.

"So you had us use the 'Irish gang' cover? Nothing traces back to you?"

"Smart boy. The whole city knows the Moretti bride got assaulted by the Irish. Marrying her was 'noble.' But who says a don has to love his wife?"

Crude laughter erupted.

"So Miss Chloe can officially move in. The don's woman should be clean, not 'damaged goods,' right?" the shrill voice said obsequiously.

Damaged goods... That was my worth in their eyes.

And I had been repenting for my "impurity," grateful for his "tolerance."

What a joke I was.

"She actually believed you saved her. The way she looked at you at the wedding—so devoted it made me want to puke."

Devoted.

I truly thought the man in those ruins was my salvation. Now I knew—he was the director taking his bow.

"The more devoted, the easier to control. I want her to go east when I say east, kneel when I say kneel. Brainwashed bitches are the easiest to handle."

That's when something inside me snapped.

I wasn't scared anymore. I wasn't crying anymore. I was ice-cold furious.

I stood up and picked up the 1978 Barolo—my father's wedding gift.

My fingers traced the bottle, feeling those cracks.

The wine bottle reflected my face back at me: swollen eyes dry now, blood on my bitten lip, eyes like steel.

"Want to do it again? Make it more exciting this time?"

"She's your wife now, anything you do is legal."

"Once the port contract comes through, she'll be useless. Then the boys can play however they want."

At 4 AM, they stumbled out, drunk.

Engine sounds faded as the estate returned to silence.

I walked out of the cellar, gripping the bloodstained Barolo, and dialed my lawyer.

"Hello, this is Evelyn Valenti."

Three seconds of silence.

"I want to report a violation of Moretti family's sacred vow."

"Also, please draft me a divorce agreement."