I am married to Dexter.He is a mafia man—the strongest, the richest, the most feared in his world.

  He married me for a deal with my father. Nothing more. He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t care for me. He feels nothing at all.

  That has always been clear.

  —

  I am reading when the door to the study opens—no knock, no warning.

  Dexter enters.

  And he isn’t alone.

  A woman hangs on his arm.

  Sofia.

  That damn Sofia!

  My enemy since high school. I never expected to see her again—certainly not like this. I lift my gaze to Dexter. ?"Business arrangement," he says coolly, cutting me off before I can speak. "Same as you. We signed the papers this morning."Then, as if he’s discussing the weather, he adjusts his cuff, adding, "She’s my second wife. The deal required it. And it worked."

  There is no affection in his voice. No warmth. He doesn’t love either of us. To him, we’re assets. Interests.

  Dexter’s hand rests on Sofia’s lower back.She giggles softly, clinging to his side.Her eyes meet mine—bright, mocking, exactly the same as they were in high school. She’s waiting.For tears. For anger. For a reaction.

  I give her nothing.My expression stays neutral. I don’t even look at her.

  “I see,” I say.

  Dexter’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. He expects more—drama, resistance, some petty female rivalry.

  “She’ll be living here,” he adds. There’s a challenge in his tone.

  Rage coils in my chest, sharp and hot—but anger won’t help me. It never does.

  Thus the angrier I become, the clearer my thoughts become.

  I take a slow breath.My tone steadies. My heartbeat slows. My mind sharpens.

  Then I walk toward Dexter—slowly, deliberately. Each step is calm. Measured. I stop in front of him and look up, meeting his eyes without flinching.“I don’t like her.”

  Sofia’s smile falters.

  Just for a second—the corner of her mouth twitching downward before the mask slides back into place.

  Dexter raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “I can’t stand her.” I hold his gaze. “And this has nothing to do with you.”

  My voice stays even. Controlled.

  “I’ve hated her since high school. So if you want peace in this house, you’ll need to fix the situation you created.”

  Silence stretches.

  Dexter’s fingers begin tapping against his thigh.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  He glances at me ,

  "Peace?" His head tilted. A cold smirk curls his lips. "I don't run this house for peace—I run it for control." his voice low and sharp as a blade. "You don't get to set rules in *my* home. You both stay. You both behave—or neither of you likes what comes next.”

  Sofia shifts beside him, smirking like she always did in school—like she's won.

  I don't blink. Don't move"It seems you've forgotten what my name is worth to you.”

  I sigh, almost to myself.

  "Perhaps I should remind Father. Cancel the cooperation. See how long you last without it."

  The tapping stopped.

  He freezes, fingers digging into the sofa. Cancel the deal? You wouldn't.

  I don't respond.

  A cold tension settles in the room as he stare at me —the threat hanging heavy between us.

  Sofia shifts, sensing the tension and taking satisfaction from it. "She murmurs something—probably gloating—but Dexter ignores her completely.”

  His eyes lock onto me , trying to gauge how serious I am. "You'd throw all this away over her?”

  I blink. Widen my eyes just enough.

  "Oh—me?" I point at myself, incredulous.

  Then I tilt my head.

  “I’m throwing all of this away for a mere woman?”

  “Dexter… are you perhaps talking about yourself?”

  Then I shake my head. Slow. Deliberate.The way one does when watching a child make a simple mistake.

  Anger flashes across his face.

  "Watch your tone." The warning comes out as a low, ominous growl.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  He stands—towering above me, every inch of him radiating cold, calculated dominance.

  "You know exactly what I mean, wife. All this for a petty grudge?”

  A quiet laugh leaves me.

  “Petty? Yes,” I say lightly. “I can be extremely petty" .My voice stays calm — almost pleasant.

  I reach up and grab his tie—Hermès silk, navy with gold threading—and pull him just close enough.I trace the woven pattern with my thumb. Slow. Methodical.The way one might check the tension of a wire.

  "I’m the type who drags someone down with me. You can test that.

  ?I pull him just close enough. Taking control of his airway. His dignity.

  Just like a spider touching the web.

  Just enough to remind him how easily space can disappear.

  "Dexter," I murmur, "you keep crossing my boundaries. Again and again.

  "What you did before didn’t matter much,” I continue. “You didn’t matter much.”

  A small pause.

  But this time… you brought filth into my space."

  My grip tightens— I look at him then. Eyes wide, not with fear, but with sharp, unnatural focus that doesn't blink

  "You already know how I feel about contamination.”

  A whisper now.

  “So why would you bring it home?”

  I hold his gaze.

  "You really shouldn't have done that.”

  His grip tightens around my wrist.Hard.

  Anger flashes in his eyes—sharp, offended—sparked by my words, by my audacity.

  He leans down, invading my space, breath hot against my face .

  The air between us crackling with tension.

  “Trash?” he murmurs, deadly quiet.

  “Be careful what you call my second wife, wife.”His mouth curves into a cold smirk.

  “And as for crossing a line…”

  He tighten his grip on my wrist, a subtle message of control.

  “You forget who runs this house. Who owns it.”

  A pause.

  He pull me closer.

  “And who owns you.”

  I look down at his hand on my waist."The weight of his palm against my waist. The heat seeping through the fabric.”

  My stomach turns. A shiver runs down my spine—not fear. Disgust.

  Vile. Nauseating.

  Gross!

  I press two fingers against his chest and push just enough to force space between us.

  He doesn't budge. I lean back instead. Create what distance I can.

  “Oh, Dexter honey,” I sigh, almost amused. “What exactly do you think this is?”

  My head tilts.

  “Do I look like I’m flirting with you right now?”

  Another breath leaves me — half exasperation, half disbelief.

  “Men,” I mutter. “Always thinking from their lower half tsk.”

  Then my expression stills.

  The humor drains, leaving something sharper underneath.

  “But you should really stop,” I say quietly. “Because my patience doesn’t run very deep.”My gaze stays on him, steady and unblinking.“And you don’t want to see what happens when it runs out.”

  With a low, dark laugh, he caught my wrist mid-push.

  His grip tightens — not enough to injure, just enough to make the point clear.A slow smile curves his mouth. Not warm. Not amused.

  “Careful,” he warns softly, voice low and smooth.

  "He steps closer.

  I step back reflexively—and my spine hits the desk.The wood edge presses into my lower back. Trapped.

  I feel him getting closer, closing the space without breaking eye contact. "His other hand plants on the desk beside my hip, boxing me in.

  “You want to test me?” Dexter murmurs. “Make sure you understand the rules first.”His gaze doesn’t leave mine."And you?" He leans down. Whispers. "You're not the first person who thought pushing me was a good idea.”

  A pause. Calm. Certain.

  His fingers tighten.

  "Look where they all ended .”

  From the couch, Sofia watches, looking far too pleased with herself.But Dexter’s attention never shifts.

  "You're pissed? Good." he says quietly.

  His fingers release mine — slowly.

  “But next time you put your hands on me,” he adds, almost conversational, “don’t expect it to end this gently.”

  "Sofia."

  He doesn't look at her.

  "Get out."

  She blinks. "What?"

  "Out."

  Flat. Final.

  She hesitates. Glances between us.

  "Now."

  Sofia's heels click against hardwood. Fast. The door opens. Closes.

  We're alone.

  Dexter turns back to me, that arrogant smile in place.

  "Now," he says softly. "Where were we?"

  A laugh escapes me. Soft. Almost pleasant.

  ?Then I reach for the vase on the side table.Heavy. Crystal. Waterford, I think.

  I bring it down on the back of his head With all my strength.

  The porcelain connects with his head before he can register the movement.

  Crack.

  The sound of porcelain meeting bone.

  Dexter doesn't react immediately. There's a brief, bewildered silence—his brain trying to process the trauma.

  Then he staggers. One step. Two.

  Eyes wide. Blood wells up, threading through his dark hair, dripping down to stain the collar of his expensive white shirt.? He touches his wound.His fingers come away red. He stares at them, eyes wide—confusion preceding the pain.

  My face doesn't change.?I crouch beside him. Set the vase down gently. No need to break it further.

  ?"What a pity, Dexter." My voice is calm. Conversational. "You really don't understand human language, do you?"

  I tilt my head.

  "You could have just bought her another home. The problem would have been solved before it arrived."

  I shake my head and let out a small, weary sigh.

  "But no. You needed real discipline to understand that.Such a waste."

  The pain hits him then — a delayed wave. The sharp pain only fuels his fury.

  His gaze darkens as he regains his balance."I can't believe —" he grits his teeth- You actually hit me.

  He rubs the back of his head, blood trickling from the fresh cut with disbelief in his eyes. "Disobedient little brat," he snaps, taking a step towards me with a sinister glint in his eyes.He raises a hand to grab me. Predictable.

  I watch his weight shift—the flare of his nostrils, the tightening of his jaw. The slight lean forward before he pushes upright.

  A wounded ego lashing out.He raises his hand—to strike, to grab, it doesn't matter.

  I don't let him finish the motion.

  ?I kick—hard, precise—into his solar plexus. The soft hollow just below the sternum where the nerve cluster sits.

  He staggers back. His mouth opens. No sound comes out.

  I kick again. Same spot. Harder.

  He staggers. Half a step back. His hand shoots out, catches the edge of the desk.His mouth opens. No sound comes out.Good.

  I kick again. Same spot. Harder.

  ?His knees hit the floor.

  Thud.

  The Persian rug muffles the impact—knees first, then palms. He's on all fours now, gasping like a landed fish. His breath comes in shallow, broken wheezes.Blood drips from his mouth. Fat, dark droplets spattering onto the beige wool. The stains spread.

  I stare at the ruined pattern.That will need to be replaced.

  ?I walk to the fruit bowl. Grapes. Cheese. And a small paring knife. Silver handle. Solingen

  steel.I pick it up. Test the weight. Light. Balanced.

  Behind me, Dexter's trying to stand. One hand braced against the desk, knuckles white with effort.

  I move before he's upright.

  The blade slides between his ribs—left side, fourth intercostal space. I angle it carefully. Shallow. Just deep enough to puncture the pleura, not the lung. He needs to stay conscious. He needs to bleed, but slowly.

  I pull the knife out.The steel slides free with a wet whisper.

  He stumbles. His hand flies to his chest, fingers scrabbling at the wound. Blood wells between them—dark, thick, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.

  "Damn you," he gasps. His voice is ragged, broken. He looks down at the blood spreading across his shirt, then up at me. The fury in his eyes is sharp, but beneath it—something else.

  Disbelief.

  "You—" He coughs. Red bubbles at the corner of his mouth. "You were always so quiet."

  I tilt my head.

  "I was," I say softly. "You should have listened.”

  He tried to straighten. Fails.

  "You think this is a win?" Voice hoarse. "You think you can hurt me like this and get away with it?"

  I look at the knife in my hand. Blood runs down the blade in thick rivulets, dripping onto the Persian rug.

  Messy.

  I hate mess.

  So you plan to take revenge.

  Then don’t blame me for finishing you off and removing future trouble. I never wanted to kill you—but you’ve left me no options.So when you die, blame yourself. Not me.

  I already have a scapegoat anyway. One you brought here yourself.

  He grits his teeth. Studies my face with the focused intensity of a man still calculating — still searching for the exit.

  Injured animals are the most dangerous.

  Even now, with Dexter injured, I keep my guard up. I never underestimated him. I never will.

  His breathing is labored, but his eyes still flash with something sharp and dangerous—a tangle of pain, anger, and, perhaps, reluctant respect.

  “You’ve got more than just courage,” he hisses. “You’re smart… too damn smart.”I don’t deny it. You've outmaneuvered me again.

  I say nothing.Silence is a weapon; it makes him calculate his own odds.

  ?I drop into a crouch—keeping exactly three feet of distance between us. The kill zone.

  ?My hand hovers near the blade. My muscle memory wants to finish this—slash the carotid, walk away, let him bleed out. It’s the safe play.

  But safe is boring. And useful pawns are hard to find.

  ?I study him.

  You're too valuable to waste, Dexter. At least for now.

  And ?I’m not done with you yet.

  ?"So tell me," I whisper. "Give me one reason not to finish you right now."

  He grits his teeth against the pain, weighing his options. He's wounded, on the floor, and i have the advantage without a doubt.

  His gaze never leaves me. He’s already analyzing my next move, searching for an opening—any weakness he can still exploit.

  He won't find one.

  You..." He takes a labored breath, his voice hoarse."...said I'm useful?"

  I plunge the knife into his right chest without hesitation.Different angle. Steeper. Between the second and third rib.Apex of lung. Superior vena cava proximity.

  He cries out. Choked. Wet. As the blade sinks deeper.

  Pain hits him hard enough to tear the sound from his throat. Anger follows—then something uglier. Helplessness. And beneath it, a grudging respect he can’t hide fast enough.

  As I pull the knife from his chest ."Sorry, Dexter." I wipe the knife on his shirt. White cotton absorbs red. "You ruined your chance.”“Again don’t blame me,It’s your fault for wasting your last chance on useless words.”

  "You're not bluffing." His voice cracks. Disbelief bleeding through. "You're not—you're actually—” He snaps, breath uneven

  "Damn… you," He grunt through gritted teeth. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth. "You're… more brutal… than I gave you credit for.”

  I blood flowing steadily now—not enough to killing him but enough to make him weak, vulnerable. He grips the wound, forcing himself to stay upright, not to show weakness.

  He grips the wound with both hands now, trying to keep himself upright. Trying not to show weakness.

  Still fighting.

  I watch him.

  Hm.

  you’re still functioning. How fascinating.

  Interesting,” I murmur.

  Genuine surprise slips into my voice.“You’re still conscious.”

  I blink, then lean in slightly — not close enough to touch, just close enough to see.

  His chest rises. Falls. Wrong rhythm. But still working.

  A soft laugh escapes me. Not loud. Just breathy disbelief.

  “Well… that’s new.”

  His eyes track me.

  Still aware.Still in there.

  I tilt my head, studying him the way one might study an insect that refuses to die after being stepped on.

  ?"You're not supposed to be conscious," I say lightly. "Did I miss an artery?"

  Not anger. Not mockery. Just genuine confusion wrapped in amusement.

  “You've got quite the life there, Dexter.Adrenaline is a fascinating drug."

  A pause.

  ?"Huh." I tap the flat of the knife blade against my palm—a slow, rhythmic tap... tap... tap.

  "I might need a different approach.”I say thoughtfully.My eye widen with glee as I am not looking at a human but just a thing .

  "What do you think, Dexter? Will you survive without a head?"

  His mouth opens. Closes.

  "I don't know about you," I add brightly, "but I'm looking forward to it."

  His eyes go wide.

  Real horror.

  The kind you can't fake.

  I watch the terror reshape his face. Strip away the arrogance.

  Just raw animal fear.

  Looking at his expression

  I burst into laughter , “Dexter, you actually believed that look at your face you look so funny when you are scared.”

  I shake my head, wiping a tear of mirth from my eye.

  “Of course not,”I sigh, the humor fading into a bored smile.As I told you before—I have an aversion to messy things. Decapitation is… excessively messy. Arterial spray is a nightmare to clean.And that’s inconvenient”

  A small, almost apologetic smile.

  "So relax." I brush off my pants. Blood on the fabic. "You keep the head.”

  I walk to the desk and set the knife down carefully.

  "I'll leave you a full body after... ending you.”

  I turn back to him.

  "It's just sad," I continue, my voice dripping with faux sympathy. "Your pretty, newly-wed wife has to take responsibility for your death."

  ?I pause. Let that sink in.

  ?"But don't worry. I'm not cruel. I'll make sure to send her to you soon."

  I crouch again—down to eye level, two feet away.

  "So you lovebirds can be together in the afterlife." I smile. Small. Pleasant. "Forever."

  A beat.

  "Bye-bye, Dexter.”

  Author’s Note

  Hi everyone. This is a 5-chapter dark psychological crime thriller—a deconstruction of the “mafia romance” tropes I’m tired of seeing.

  Content Warning:

  This story contains a morally bankrupt protagonist, calculated murder, graphic violence, and dark themes. The villain wins.

  If you enjoy a protagonist who actually finishes what they start without a redemption arc, you’re in the right place.