The 33rd Divorce from the Don

I married Massimo Salvatore, the mafia don, thirty-two times. And divorced him thirty-two times.

Every single time for the same reason—his precious Claudia came back from her overseas treatment facility.

"She took a bullet to the head for me. Any stress could kill her." That was his only explanation.

The first divorce, I trashed the entire living room. He slapped me across the face: "Cut the DRAMA. We'll get back together once she's stable."

The third time, I followed them to the club and caught them kissing. I confronted him—got locked in the basement for seven days.

Sign the papers, take off the ring, pack my bags. Like a nightmare on repeat.

Until the thirty-third time.

A rival family grabbed both me and Claudia. With a gun to his head, he could only save one of us. I looked at him, voice breaking: "Massimo, just this once, pick me."

He walked toward her.

Four hours later, his men found me in some abandoned warehouse. Three broken ribs, blood everywhere. Our baby—gone.

Massimo camped out by Claudia's hospital bed, wouldn't leave her side. Didn't visit me once. Not even when I got discharged.

That's when I was done.

Adela's POV

"I want a divorce."

First day out of the hospital, I pushed the signed papers across the table.

Massimo froze mid-sip, espresso cup hovering. He looked up, those dark gray eyes flashing surprise.

"What?"

"Divorce." I said it again, calm. "Claudia gets out day after tomorrow, right?"

He stared at my signature, throat working. Then he grabbed the pen and signed—smooth, practiced, like he'd done it a hundred times before.

Claudia was his first love. Seven years ago she took a hit for him during a raid and got her skull cracked open. Doctors said any kind of stress could kill her. So every time she flew back from Switzerland, we had to split up.

Thirty-three times now.

"Well look at you, being all cooperative." Massimo snapped the folder shut, satisfied. "About damn time you got with the program."

I kept my eyes down. Didn't say anything. Just slipped off my wedding ring and set it on the table.

His smile died. "Keep it."

"Don't want to set Claudia off."

His face went dark.

Divorce number fifteen—Claudia saw the ring on my finger and collapsed. Massimo lost his shit, swore I did it on purpose. Dragged me outside in the rain, made me kneel on the gravel and apologize to her. I stayed there all night. Ended up with a fever so bad I damn near cooked my brain.

"Whatever." He swept the ring into a drawer.

I went to the closet to pack. Running my hands over the clothes, I felt nothing—just this weird numbness. Five years of moving in and out of this place thirty-two times. Always thinking this was it, this was the last time. Always hoping like an idiot.

Now I was just tired.

"Adela." Impatience crept into his voice. "You listening?"

"Yeah."

"Three weeks. Soon as Claudia's back in Switzerland, we're getting remarried." He stood in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets. "Where you going?"

"Elise's."

"Your friend?" Suspicion sharpened his tone. "How long?"

"Three weeks." I zipped the suitcase and turned around. "That's what you said, right? Wait till Claudia leaves?"

He narrowed his eyes, scanning my face. "Don't try anything stupid. Don't go psycho on me like last time."

I looked at him—this man who cornered me in a hotel five years ago, voice rough in my ear: "Be my wife. I'll give you the world." Back then his eyes burned with something that made me think I mattered.

Now? Just suspicion and annoyance.

"Don't worry," I said quietly. "I won't bother you two."

He watched me for a few seconds. His expression eased a bit. "Good. When Claudia leaves, I'll make it up to you. That necklace I promised—"

"Don't want it."

His eyes sharpened. "Excuse me?"

"I said I don't want it." I met his stare, that hollow space in my chest empty and cold. "Don't need you to make anything up to me."

"Adela." His voice dropped, jaw tight. "What the fuck is this? You having another breakdown?"

"No."

"Then what's with the attitude?" He moved closer, voice hard. "Still pissed about me picking Claudia?"

I stared at him. Tasted something bitter in my throat.

Since I lost the baby, he never once asked if I was okay. If it hurt. He just kept explaining WHY he had to choose her, like good reasons meant losing our child shouldn't wreck me.

"And that kid—" He paused, voice going ice cold. "You think I didn't know? Getting pregnant to trap me? Adela, I'm not an idiot. Saw right through your little game."

Something twisted in my chest.

"You're right," I said softly. Grabbed my suitcase. "My mistake."

I walked out. Ignored him shouting after me.

The car pulled away from the estate. In the rearview mirror, I caught one last glimpse—sunlight hit the mansion just right, made it look like some fairy tale castle. But I knew better. That place was a prison. Kept me locked up for five years.

The hollow feeling in my chest spread, like someone carved out a piece of me.

But it didn't hurt anymore.

Maybe I'd been hurting so long I'd gone numb.

I dialed a number I never saved.

Three rings. Someone picked up.

Just breathing on the other end. No words.

I switched to Italian, voice barely there: "Father..."

Silence.

Just that quiet breathing.

"It's me." I watched the city blur past the window, eyes burning. "I want to come home."