My Mafia Boss Husband Laughed When They Called Me a Victim, Until He Found the Diary I Had Been Hiding for Five Years

They sat on the porch as the sun began to dip behind the western headlands, turning the sea into ribbons of bruised purple and gold.

Damian sat on the wooden step, his back against the railing, his long legs stretched out before him. Between his hands, he held the blue diary.

“I read it,” he said.

Emma took a slow breath. She looked out at the water. “I know.”

“Why didn't you tell me, Emma?” The agony in his voice was almost unbearable to hear. “Why didn't you tell me about the warehouse? About Olivia’s debts? About… about your heart?”

“Because you wouldn't have heard me, Damian.”

He flinched as if she had struck him with a tire iron.

“I would have—”

“No, you wouldn't,” she interrupted, her voice soft, gentle, and utterly devastating. “You would have heard a problem that needed a transaction. You would have sent two men to threaten Olivia, you would have sent a million dollars to a clinic, and then you would have gone back to your study, satisfied that the problem was solved. You would have looked at me like a weak piece of machinery that needed maintenance.”

Damian hung his head. A solitary tear tracked through the stubble on his cheek.

“You’re right,” he whispered. “God help me, you’re right.”

“I didn't need you to fix my problems, Damian,” she continued, looking down at her bare fingers. “I needed you to see me. I needed you to look at me across a crowded room and remember that I was a human being who gave up her entire life, her safety, and her peace of mind to stand beside a dangerous man.”

She looked down at him.

“And instead, you laughed with them.”

Damian covered his face with his hands. His broad shoulders shook.

“I will tear this world apart for you, Emma,” he choked out. “I threw them out. My mother. Olivia. Gianni. I stripped Olivia’s allowances. I told them if they ever disrespect you again, they will never see another dime of Romano money. I’ve booked the top three cardiologists in Boston—we can leave tonight, we can leave the country—”

“Stop, Damian.”

He stopped, his red-rimmed eyes lifting to hers.

“You’re still doing it,” she said softly. “You’re still throwing power and money at a wound that only needed your respect.”

Damian sat frozen.

“What do I do?” he begged. It was the first time in his thirty-eight years of life that Damian Romano had ever asked another human being for direction. “Tell me what to do, Emma. I cannot live in that house without you. I cannot walk through those rooms knowing I was the monster who broke you. Tell me what to do.”

Emma set her empty tea mug on the small table.

She stood up and walked down the steps. She stopped in front of him.

“You go back to Seattle,” she said.

His breath caught. “Emma, no—”

“You go back, and you handle your business. And you let me stay here for thirty days. Alone. No guards watching me from the tree line. No cars circling the lane. Just me, the sea, and my doctors.”

“And then?” Damian asked, his voice trembling like a child’s.

“And then, if you still want to be my husband,” Emma said, looking directly into his soul, “you come back here. On foot. Without your power. Without your family. And you court me. You ask me what my favorite book is. You learn what makes me smile. And you prove to me that Damian Romano can love something without having to conquer it.”

Damian stared at her.

He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering in the air between them, terrified that touching her might shatter the fragile peace she had found.

Gently, Emma placed her smaller hand into his.

He brought her knuckles to his mouth, pressed his lips against her skin, and closed his eyes.