My Mafia Husband Threw Me Out at Midnight—Then I Found Out He Was Trying to Die for Me.

The metal of Frank’s heavy SIG Sauer P226 felt ice-cold against my palm, coated in a fine, slick sheen of his blood. The smell of copper and spent cordite filled the cramped interior of the crushed SUV, fighting against the artificial scent of leather and rain blowing through the shattered driver’s side window.

Outside, heavy combat boots splashed through the deep puddles under the bridge, two pairs pacing toward the driver’s side while another set circled slowly toward the rear tailgate.

"Check the driver," a harsh voice shouted over the roaring thunder. "Make sure the old bastard's dead. Then drag the girl out. Falcone wants her in one piece, but he didn't say anything about her legs."

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, but my hands didn't shake. Seven years with Carlo Barbieri didn't just teach me how to move millions through Swiss dummy accounts or smile at corrupt police chiefs over red wine. It taught me the sound of a gun racking, the weight of a trigger, and the exact second a man lets his guard down because he thinks he's fighting a woman.

I ducked lower behind the front passenger seat, pulling my legs beneath me. My silk robe was soaked around the hem, dragging heavy against my ankles, but I ripped the belt free and tied it tight around my waist, clearing my movements.

A shadowed figure appeared at the broken driver's window. A man in a heavy tactical jacket reached through the shattered glass, reaching down to feel Frank's neck for a pulse.

I didn't hesitate.

I reached over the console, pressed the muzzle of Frank’s gun directly against the soft skin beneath the man’s jaw, and pulled the trigger.

The muffled thud was swallowed by a crack of lightning overhead. The man collapsed backward into the rainwater with a heavy splash.

"What the hell?!" the second man screamed from the rear of the vehicle, his boots scrambling across the wet pavement.

I didn't wait for him to clear the corner. I kicked the rear passenger door open with all the force left in my body. The heavy metal door slammed directly into the second gunman's face, the sickening crunch of breaking cartilage echoing under the bridge. He stumbled back, clutching his bleeding nose, his assault rifle swinging wildly up toward the sky.

I stepped out into the pouring rain, raised the pistol with both hands, and fired three times into his chest.

He hit the asphalt and didn't move.

The third man—the one standing near the front bumper—swung his shotgun toward me, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You crazy bitch—"

I squeezed the trigger.

Click.

The slide locked back. Empty.

The gunman sneered, racking his shotgun with a heavy mechanical clack. "Falcone’s gonna love breaking you."

Before he could pull the trigger, a silver sedan screamed around the corner, its headlights cutting through the blinding rain. The car didn't slow down. It mounted the curb, smashing into the gunman at forty miles an hour and pinning him against the concrete bridge pillar with a sickening crunch.

The sedan’s passenger door flew open.

"Get in, Bianca!" a woman shouted above the engine's roar.

I stared into the vehicle. Behind the wheel sat Sofia Rossi—Carlo’s personal accountant, a thirty-two-year-old math genius from Naples who usually looked like she was afraid of her own shadow. Right now, her knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and her face was coated in cold sweat.

I didn't ask questions. I lunged into the passenger seat, slamming the door just as the dead gunman’s shotgun clattered to the ground.

Sofia slammed the car into reverse, the tires screaming against the slick pavement, before spinning the wheel and launching us forward onto Michigan Avenue.

"Frank?" Sofia gasped, her eyes darting frantically to the rearview mirror.

"Dead," I said, my voice terrifyingly flat. I released the empty magazine from Frank's pistol, dropping it onto the floorboard, and looked at her. "Why aren't you with Carlo?"

"Because Carlo set this whole thing up three days ago," Sofia sobbed, wiping a tear from her cheek with her sleeve. "He knew someone in the inner circle traded our distribution routes to Falcone. He knew if Falcone took Chicago, you’d be the first bargaining chip they’d use to make him kneel."

"He threw me out," I whispered, the cold rain dripping from my hair onto my bare collarbone. "He called me a liability."

"He had to make the house look compromised!" Sofia screamed over the sound of the rain against the windshield. "Falcone’s men were listening through the penthouse security feeds! If Carlo treated you like his wife, they would have seized you inside the building! He had to make them think you were worthless to him so they’d focus on the estate and let Frank get you to the airport!"

My breath hitched in my chest.

I believe I’m tired of protecting a woman who does nothing but decorate my life.

His words had hit so deep because he knew I’d react with anger instead of despair. He knew I’d walk out with my head held high, looking like a discarded mistress instead of the woman who held his heart.

I looked down at my phone. The picture of Carlo on his knees in our living room was still glowing on the screen. The blood on his white shirt was dark, almost black, pooling near his ribs.

"He's still alive in that photo," I said, turning the screen toward Sofia. "Who took this?"

Sofia glanced at the screen for a fraction of a second, her face turning gray. "That's... that's our penthouse. That's the main drawing room."

"Who had access to the security codes, Sofia?" I demanded, my hands gripping the dashboard. "Frank said half the capos went dark an hour ago. Who led Falcone into my home?"

Sofia swallowed hard, her foot pressing heavier on the gas pedal. "Not half the capos, Bianca. Just one."

She pulled the sedan into a narrow alley behind an abandoned industrial laundry building three miles west of the Loop, killing the headlights.