The Mafia Boss' Betrayal

Meet me in the bathroom

Dante POV

Sweat dripped down his back as his fists slammed into the punching bag.

Leonardo. Isabella. Isabella’s father.

Leo.

With every strike, he imagined a new face—each one a reminder of how far he’d fallen. But no one pissed him off more than himself. He should’ve been with Gia. Married. Raising Luca and Aria under one roof. A real family.

But with Gia as their mother…

“Maledizione!” he barked, stepping back.

The f*****g gala was in a few hours. Another night of fake smiles and camera-ready suits. Lately, that’s all his life had become.

Gala this. Office that.

When he’d taken over the family business, he hadn’t expected so much formality. He’d been trained since he was twelve—for blood, not banquets. Most of what he knew was tied to survival, strategy, and violence. Not which wine paired best with caviar.

If anyone was to blame, it was Dario. His little brother had been whispering about going “legit” for years. Dante had tried—for his sake. Tried to be better. But tonight? He regretted it.

He grabbed his phone.

“You dealt with the snitch yet?”

“Not yet. You want to handle it yourself?”

“I’ll be there in thirty,” he said flatly, wiping his sweat away and tugging his shirt on.

There was no Mafia without violence. And maybe it was time he remembered where the hell he came from.

--

“What the hell happened to you?” Dario asked, looking down at Dante’s split knuckles. He had one of his usual model girls on his arm—since this was a plus one required event.

“Nothing,” Dante grumbled, hiding his hand behind his back. He’d just endured the usual paparazzi gauntlet outside—smiling like his marriage wasn’t rotting from the inside. He wasn’t happy and the more his marriage dragged on, the harder it was for him to play the part of happy husband.

His eyes drifted to Isabella. She was mingling with the other wives—laughing, but she wasn’t drinking. Good. It seemed his talk had helped. He might not love her, but he wasn’t a heartless d**k either.

The Gala was massive—but of course, it didn’t stop him from seeing her. Five years of never running into her, and now, it was like she was being paraded in front of him, like another thing that was wrong in his life—another thing he couldn’t have.

His eyes drifted to Leo—who had a young blond on his arm. Rage boiled inside of him as he watched him parade her around, laughing and smiling at the other men. Bringing a mistress along to one of these private events was nothing new. A lot of the men did it.

Smile with their wives for the pictures outside, but once in, they were discarded.

The photos he’d asked for had come in yesterday afternoon.

Dante had studied them alone in his office, jaw clenched, the air in the room thick enough to choke on.

Leonardo Costa. Caught with woman after woman—at clubs, outside hotels, even tangled up in the backseat of his car like a damn teenager.

Disgusting. Predictable.

But the worst were the photos with Gia.

She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t glowing. She looked… small. Sad. Submissive in a way that made Dante’s blood run cold. Gia Moretti had once stared down his father, had once told Dante to stop being a coward and fight for her. That woman didn’t bow to anyone. And now? Her eyes were dull. Her posture, guarded. Like she was bracing for impact.

What the hell did that bastard do to her?

That was when he’d thrown the chair. Then the lamp. Then his fist into the wall. He wasn’t even sure when he started punching the bag—it was a blur after that.

Even now, when he stared at Leo—Dante had never wanted to put a bullet in someone so badly.

Gia came into his vision, and his mouth nearly dropped open. For a second, his anger disappeared and his heart throbbed in all the right places throughout his body. Holy s**t.

That dress... it wasn’t loud or desperate like the ones Leo made her wear. No, this one whispered strength. It fit her like a second skin—elegant, powerful, quietly devastating. Very Gia.

This wasn’t Gia Costa, arm candy to a monster. This was Giana Moretti—the girl he’d loved. The one he’d lost. Then she turned and smiled at him. It was a mischievous smile and Dante was taken aback, but she quickly turned—in conversation with someone else.

Dario’s date, Lauren—or whatever her name was—giggled, her hand brushing his chest, but he barely noticed. Dante noticed Dario wasn’t smiling anymore. He’d gone still—eyes locked on the entrance like a man watching a bomb walk into the room.

Dante followed his gaze.

Madeline De Luca. Of course—the girl his brother was pretending wasn’t driving him crazy.

She was in a sleek midnight-blue gown, walking confidently beside her brother, Nicholas De Luca—the last man on earth Dario should want to piss off.

Nico looked like he was there to do business, not socialize. Madeline, though—her smile was sharp, almost too polished. And when she spotted them, her gaze swept over Dario and Lauren like they weren’t worth the ground she walked on.

“You f****d up,” Dante muttered, his voice low.

“She doesn’t look happy,” Dario murmured, jaw tight.

“No,” Dante said. “But she does look dangerous.”

Dario said nothing.

Maddie stopped to greet one of the older dons, her hand slipping lightly onto the man’s arm as she laughed at something he said.

“If you're going to pretend you don’t care, try blinking once in a while,” Dante added.

Dario's grip on his glass tightened. “She’s De Luca’s baby sister. What do you want me to do?”

“Not bring a knockoff Barbie doll to the same event, for starters. We both know she’s got you whipped.”

Dario exhaled through his nose, “I’m not whipped,” but still, his eyes never left Maddie, following her every move.

Across the room, Madeline met Dario’s stare for half a second—just long enough to smile, toss her hair, and turn her attention to someone else.

Dante’s lips quirked up into a smile. It was about time someone put his dear brother in his place.

“Mr. Mancini, how lovely to see you again.” Dante’s head snapped to the right. Gia’s voice—measured, polite, laced with something only he would catch.

“Mrs. Costa,” Dante greeted, feeling confused. She stretched out her hand and when he took it, a note was passed into his hand. Dante composed his expression and kissed her hand as if nothing was wrong.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Gia muttered, before walking passed him, in the direction of the bathroom.

He walked to the bar, paper still gripped in his hand and carefully rolled it open.

Meet me in the bathroom.

Dante folded it shut, heart already pounding.

Christ. She was serious.