The Mafia Boss' Betrayal

Give A D*mn

Dante POV

Dante lit a cigarette he didn’t want and stared out over the city—as he inhaled deeply.

After the Alliance Gala, something felt off. Not just with Gia—though seeing her on Leo’s arm in that dress had nearly made him commit murder—but with Isabella too.

Isabella had been her usual self at the gala—loud, laughing too hard, clinking glasses like she owned the room. But afterward? She was different.

Not quieter, exactly. But clingier. Off.

She hovered more. Found reasons to touch him—his arm, his shoulder, the back of his neck. Always casual, always smiling. But it was the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He didn’t mind the contact. Not really. But it felt… hollow. Like going through the motions of a script neither of them believed in anymore.

And she was drinking more. Not in front of people—but at home. At night.

He’d found her with a half-empty bottle of wine and silent tears in her eyes two nights ago. She said it was nothing. He didn’t press.

He should’ve.

Because if Isabella Moreno -Mancini was scared? Something was very, very wrong.

Dante had gone over the night over and over in his head, but nothing had stood out to him. Nothing special, but then again—all of his attention had been on Gia.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” Dante sighed, picking a drunken Isabella up off the couch and carrying her to bed.

“Dante, I love you,” Isabella slurred, hanging onto him like a koala bear. “Never leave me. I’m so…sorry,” she whispered. It tugged at his heartstrings, to hear her so vulnerable—but… the way she said it made chills run up and down his spine. What was she sorry about?

He put her in bed and took off her shoes, setting them gently on the floor.

“Wait,” Isabella slurred, her fingers fumbling for the straps of her dress. “Don’t go yet…”

“Isa—”

“Help me out of this?” she whispered, trying to sound sultry, but it came out breathless and broken.

He hesitated.

She giggled, a high, nervous sound, and ran her hands up his chest. “We could… you know,” she bit her lip, sliding her arms around his neck, “just like we used to. I’ll be so good for you.”

“Isabella,” he said gently, gripping her wrists. “You’re drunk.”

“So?” she whispered, leaning in, trying to kiss him.

He pulled back. “So you’re not thinking straight.”

She blinked up at him. And for a second, something in her eyes cracked—fear, maybe. Or shame. He couldn’t tell.

“You don’t want me anymore, do you?” she asked quietly.

“Get some sleep,” he said, brushing her hair back. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He pulled the blanket up over her, then stood and walked out without looking back.

But her voice followed him—soft, almost broken.

“I’m sorry, Dante…”

Dante stepped out of the house again. He couldn’t stop thinking. He reached in his coat pocket and lit another cigarette—a habit he thought he’d kicked—but he’d picked it up again…as a punishment maybe? He was married, but he couldn’t stop thinking of her… and his son.

He should’ve stopped thinking about Gia.

But he hadn’t. Not since the gala. Not since she smiled like someone had scripted it. Not since Leo introduced her like a trophy he planned to break.

He’d smiled. Kissed her hand. Played the part.

But inside? He’d been one wrong word away from snapping the man’s neck.

Still—Gia wasn’t his to protect. Not anymore.

But Leo Costa?

Maybe it was time someone looked into him. Looked into the man that had the woman he wanted. That spent time around his son. What kind of man was Leonardo Costa?

Dante took one last drag from his cigarette and reached for his phone.

“Yes, boss?” Fabio’s tired voice sounded on the other side of the line.

“Have someone follow Leonardo,” he said. “Discreetly. I want to know where Leo Costa goes, who he talks to, and what he does when no one’s looking.”

There was a pause on the line. “Any particular reason, boss?”

Dante stared out the window, jaw tight. “No reason,” he said. “Just a gut feeling.”

—

The next morning, it was his favorite day of the week. Saturday.

“Daddy!” Aria skipped into the kitchen where Dante was drinking his morning coffee and reading the paper.

“Hey, Princess,” he scooped her up mid skip and hugged her tightly.

“Are we going to the park again? I hope Luca is there!” she squealed. Dante’s heart skipped a beat. He hoped Luca was there too… and his mother.

“Good morning,” Isabella said, appearing in silk pajamas and oversized sunglasses even though they were indoors.

“You look... busy,” she said, eyeing Aria with a vague smile. “Have fun at the park.”

She didn’t wait for an answer before pouring herself a glass of wine.

It was 9 a.m.

He quickly steered Aria out of the kitchen, into the hallway.

Dante paused in the foyer, keys in hand, glancing over his shoulder toward the kitchen where Isabella had just disappeared.

He exhaled slowly, jaw tight. This wasn’t sustainable. Not with Aria in the house.

“Luisa,” he said quietly to one of the senior housekeepers, who’d just entered with the morning linens.

She straightened immediately. “Yes, sir?”

“Clear out the bar. The wine cabinet too. Everything.”

Luisa blinked. “All of it, sir?”

“All of it. I don’t want a single drop of alcohol in this house. Tell her I locked it up if she asks.”

“Understood.”

He hesitated, then added, “And… keep an eye on her today. And could make sure Aria stays close to the staff when I’m not home?”

“Of course.”

He looked down at Aria, who was hopping from one foot to the other in her sparkly sneakers.

“Let’s go, princess.”

But as they stepped outside into the sunshine, the heaviness in his chest didn’t lift.

Isabella wasn’t just his wife. She was Aria’s mother. And no matter how cold things had gotten between them…

He still gave a damn.

That’s what made it all harder. He needed to talk to her. Today.

—

Dante was pushing Aria on the swings—just a regular Saturday morning in the park, something simple and quiet, something that felt like a life he almost could’ve had—when he saw the small figure standing off to the side.

Luca. Alone.

“Daddy! Luca’s here!” Aria screamed, hopping off the swing and running towards him—with Dante hesitantly following behind—hands in his pocket. His eyes scanned the playground in search of Gia—or anyone that had accompanied him.

Aria was already chattering away, but Dante could see it immediately. Something was wrong.

Luca was tense. His little eyes kept flicking over his shoulder like he was afraid someone might appear. His cheeks were flushed and puffy, like he’d been crying.

Dante crouched in front of him, voice gentle. “Hey, Luca.” He offered a warm smile. “It’s nice to see you. I’m Dante—remember? Aria’s dad.”

He glanced around again. Still no one. “You here with someone, buddy?”

Luca looked up at him slowly. There it was—that crack in his gaze. Raw and wide and too quiet for a child his age. He shook his head.

Dante’s heart slammed into his ribs.

“Is your mommy home?” he asked carefully.

A small nod. Still no words.

Aria stood next to them now, unusually quiet. Watching. Sensing what even she didn’t understand.

Dante kept his tone light, steady. “How about we go get some ice cream, hmm? I know a place just over there. And after that, we’ll take you back to your mom. Sound good?”

Luca hesitated… then nodded again. “I like ice cream,” he whispered.

His face lifted a little. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Dante took both their hands—small, trusting, so heartbreakingly innocent.

—

“Luca! Daddy, look at me!” Aria shouted, stumbling through a cartwheel and landing in the grass with a giggle. Her half-eaten ice cream threatened to melt onto her sundress, but she didn’t care.

Dante chuckled, clapping for her, then glanced back to where Luca sat quietly on the bench beside him, slowly licking his cone. The contrast between them was stark—one child light and unbothered, the other silent, small, shoulders too tense for a six-year-old.

Dante didn’t want to push. He’d tried light questions, some gentle teasing, but Luca had only offered shrugs and tiny nods. Until—

As Dante crouched down to tie one of the boy’s shoes, Luca whispered, voice barely above the breeze,

“I don’t like it when Mommy and Daddy fight.”

Dante froze, the laces dangling from his fingers.

His jaw clenched tight, teeth grinding. But when he looked up, his voice was soft. “Yeah?” he asked. “What happens when they fight? Does he…hurt you?”

Luca’s eyes darted away. “He just yells. A lot.” He shook his head quickly.

Dante nodded slowly, the knot on the shoe forgotten.

Not yet, he thought grimly.

“Why don’t I walk you home?” he offered gently. “Your mom must be worried.”

Luca hesitated… then nodded.

—

It wasn’t a long walk.

Like Dante’s own, the Costa home was grand—massive, manicured, a fortress disguised as luxury. But where his estate sat tucked behind gates and gardens, this one sat flush with the city street, exposed. Impressive, but suffocating.

Luca fidgeted beside him as they reached the front door. Dante didn’t even have a chance to knock.

The door yanked open.

“Luca!” Leonardo Costa’s voice rang out sharp and cold. “Thank God. I was just about to call the police! Where the hell have you been?”

Luca shrank back—stepping behind Dante a little—and so did Aria.

Dante’s arms instinctively came down onto both children’s shoulders, a subtle protective move.

“Take it easy,” he said, voice low and controlled. “He was at the park. I found him alone.”

Leonardo’s eyes narrowed. “Alone? He was supposed to be—” He cut himself off, rage simmering just beneath his smirk.

“He’s a kid,” Dante continued, stepping forward slightly. “Not a soldier. Maybe try not yelling at him the second he walks in the door.”

Leonardo’s jaw tightened. “This is none of your business, Mancini.”

“Maybe not,” Dante said calmly. “But maybe don’t lose track of your kid next time.”

A soft voice cut through the tension. “Stop it. Both of you.” They all turned.

Gia stood in the doorway, calm on the surface. But her voice trembled just enough to betray her—eyes slightly puffy and red.

She stepped forward and reached for Luca’s hand.

That’s when Dante saw it.

Just a glimpse—a faint red imprint at her inner arm, quickly hidden as her sleeve shifted back down.

Dante’s gaze lifted immediately to Leonardo—who had followed his gaze.

And he smirked at Dante, as if to dare him to say anything.

His stomach turned to stone. That red mark burned into his vision like a warning flare—and Leo’s smirk sealed it.

He didn’t have proof yet. But he had a target.

He was going to kill Leonardo Costa—if it was the last thing he ever did.