The Revenge of the Mafia Queen

That day, my fiancé texted me an hour before the wedding to tell me he wasn't coming.

The reason was classic: his mistress was pregnant and needed legitimacy.

And me?

According to him, "Three years and nothing. Maybe you can't even have kids."

Five years later, I ran into him back home. He had the audacity to suggest I work at a spa giving his mistress foot massages.

He had no idea that the woman he saw as destitute was the one person in all of San Valero no one should ever fuck with—the Donna.

...

The rain was hammering down on San Valero's streets like it had lost its mind.

"Donna, the convoy's still stuck on Madison. At least twenty more minutes." The captain's deep voice came through my earpiece.

I pressed the button. "Got it."

I stood under the awning outside Serenity Spa, waiting.

Dante insisted that I come here for some pampering, claiming that I have been exceedingly fatigued and in need of relaxation.

"The finest masseur in San Valero," he declared, "I have booked the entire establishment, leaving you as the sole guest."

A screech of brakes. A black car skidded to a stop right in front of the entrance.

The window rolled down.

I saw a face I thought I'd never have to see again in this lifetime.

Marco Ricci.

Five years ago, it was a rainy night just like this.

I was wearing a rented wedding dress when Marco's text popped up on my phone: "Sorry Elena, I can't make it."

That night, I chased him to his apartment. My key wouldn't open the door—he'd changed the locks.

Later, a neighbor told me Claire had moved into what was supposed to be our home. She was already five months pregnant.

Marco stared at me for a few seconds, then his eyes went wide, like he'd seen a ghost.

"Elena? Holy shit, is that really you?"

In the passenger seat, Claire turned around. She stared at me for two seconds, then burst out laughing.

"Oh my God, Marco, look—it's Elena!" She shoved his shoulder. "What's she doing standing outside a spa? Applying for a massage therapist job?"

"I told you, a woman like her was always gonna crash and burn without you. Look at her now, pathetic."

Marco pushed open the car door and stepped out, Claire following right behind him.

"I knew it," Marco said, crossing his arms. "A woman like you—no background, no skills—you're nothing without me."

I didn't say anything. Just stood there watching them, like I was watching two dogs yapping at a stranger.

Claire's eyes locked onto my wrist. She stepped closer, her voice getting sharper.

"Oh my God, that watch." She let out a harsh laugh. "It doesn't even have a brand name on it. What is that, some knockoff from a flea market? You used to at least try to look decent. Can't even afford that anymore?"

I looked down at my wrist.

Deep blue dial. No visible branding. The band was made of soft calfskin that automatically adjusted as my wrist swelled during pregnancy. Hidden inside the case was a fetal heart monitor that synced to Dante's phone every fifteen minutes.

There was only one in the world.

Dante had it custom-made by Switzerland's finest watchmaker when I was pregnant with Leo. "I need to know she and the baby are safe every second," he'd said.

These idiots had no fucking clue what they were looking at.

"Come work at my spa," Marco said, his tone dripping with that charitable kind of pity. "I promise Claire won't give you a hard time. After all... you used to be my woman, right? I won't just watch you starve on the streets."

Claire's phone rang. She answered it and deliberately cranked up the volume.

"Hello? Melissa?" She shot me a glance and laughed even louder. "Guess who I just ran into? Marco's ex-fiancée! Yeah, the one who got dumped!"

A woman's exaggerated shriek came through the phone. "No way! What's she like now?"

"A total disaster," Claire said smugly. "Standing outside a spa, probably begging for work. Marco's being too soft—he even wants to hire her."

"Don't you dare! You guys are about to partner with the Vancetti family! You can't hire some washed-up nobody!"

"That's exactly what I think!" Claire hung up and turned to me. "Did you hear that, Elena? We're about to work with the Vancetti family. You know what that means?"

"It means we're moving up in the world. And you," she pointed at me, "you're not even worth the staff we already have."

Marco walked over and put his arm around her waist.

Claire paused, her eyes full of malice.

"Elena, if you're really that desperate, I suppose I could throw you a bone. We need someone to give foot massages. If you're willing to drop the attitude, maybe I'll let you wash my feet."

"Of course," she tapped her chin with one manicured nail, "you'd have to be obedient. Scrub between the toes, trim the nails, massage the pressure points. Think someone like you can handle that?"

My vision blurred for a moment.

Not from the rain.

I suddenly remembered that year in college when I worked three jobs to save up tuition.

One day I was so exhausted I sat on the apartment floor counting money.

Marco knelt down, took my hand, and said he'd marry me so I wouldn't have to struggle anymore.

But that same night, he took me to a party full of rich people.

When I walked in carrying my old canvas bag, his face changed instantly.

He threw the bag in the trash and said I was embarrassing him.

That was the real Marco.

Not gentle. Not promising. Just vain, greedy, and laughably insecure.

I reached up and touched the necklace at my collarbone, a blood-red stone set in the center.

Everyone in San Valero knew this marked the Donna of the Vancetti family.

I was about to reveal who I was when Marco stepped closer.

"Look at yourself now," he sneered. "Wake up. You're not even worth one of Claire's toes. Good thing I picked Claire back then."

"If it weren't for the fact that you used to service me, I wouldn't even bother with you. Get on your knees and beg me now, and maybe I'll let Claire hire you to wash feet."

His words felt like something squeezing my heart.

He still thought I'd wag my tail like a dog and beg him.

So in his eyes, texting me an hour before the wedding to dump me, legitimizing his five-months-pregnant mistress, kicking me to the curb—all of that was just his reasonable choice.

And me? I was just a disposable object in his life.

The boy who once said he'd make sure I never had to struggle again was long dead.

As for Marco Ricci? He wasn't even worthy of licking the bottom of my shoe.