The Godfather's Love Buried in Snow

I had been married to the man who controlled the East Coast underground arms trade for exactly one month.

In that time, we had already broken three beds.

Even my husband’s mother, the matriarch of the Rossi family—Donna Rosa—paused while sipping her espresso at breakfast.

She looked at the high collar I wore to hide the hickeys on my neck.

She squeezed my hand meaningfully. The large ruby ring on her finger, a symbol of her power, felt cold against my skin.

"Elena," she said, elegantly cutting into her medium-rare steak.

Her tone held a mix of teasing and that specific kind of protectiveness Italian families are famous for.

"Marrying a bastard like Dante requires a strong constitution. Once that boy gets a taste of meat, he’s like a Siberian wolf that hasn’t eaten in three days. He’ll swallow you whole."

I tightened my silk robe, trying to hide the marks on my neck.

I felt like I had just stepped off a boxing ring. Every bone in my body was protesting.

Dante Rossi.

He was nearly thirty when he married me for the sake of our families' alliance.

He acted like a prisoner who hadn’t seen a woman in half a century. Once he got a taste, he lost all control.

After the fifth time that night, I felt him moving over me again in my drowsy state.

I pushed against his chest, which felt as hard as iron. My voice was hoarse and annoyed.

"Enough, Dante. I need to sleep."

His rough, large hand clamped around my wrist.

His hot breath hit my ear, domineering and undeniable.

"Call me by my name, or maybe call me 'Sir,' and I might consider letting you go."

I bit his shoulder hard.

But in the end, I lost the battle, surrendering to the overwhelming testosterone in the room.

"Dante... please."

A month later, I found out I was pregnant.

I held the pregnancy test with joy, thinking this was proof our political marriage was turning into true love.

Then I saw the top trending topic on Twitter.

It was a photo of Dante Rossi and his old flame, Bianca Miller, kissing on a private beach in St. Barts.

At that moment, I felt like I had been shot point-blank in the chest.

I sat in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of my Manhattan penthouse all night, watching the lights of New York go out and come back on.

The next day, I sent a divorce agreement to the Ferrari family lawyer.

...

I sent a letter to the family trust to freeze a shipment of arms worth millions headed for the Middle East.

The next day, Dante’s mother, Donna Rosa, came knocking.

This Godmother, usually so elegant and poised in high society, was trembling as she held my wrist.

"Elena."

Her voice held a rare plea, even a hint of desperation. "Dante, that bastard, he messed up. He doesn’t deserve you."

"But for the sake of the blood oath our families swore back in the Prohibition era, Mom is begging you. Give him five more days."

"If that boy doesn't get his act together, I will personally call the Family Committee and transfer all the port shares he controls to your name."

I rubbed the calluses on my fingertips, earned from years of shooting practice.

My mind drifted back to the year we first met in Colombia.

Cartel wars were raging, and our convoy was ambushed near the jungle.

Dante had pushed me behind a crate full of C4 explosives.

He stood in front of me, his assault rifle spitting fire, his voice steady and cold.

"Keep your head down. Don't be afraid. I'm here."

He took a bullet but kept going, dragging me through a coca field full of landmines until he shoved me into a CIA safe house.

Only then did he pass out.

The first thing he said when he woke up was a classic American hero promise.

"As long as I'm here, no one will touch a hair on your head."

Maybe it was the bond forged in that hail of bullets that hadn't completely cooled yet.

I nodded.

Less than half an hour after Donna Rosa left, Dante kicked open the apartment door.

He acted like he didn't see the divorce papers on my table.

He didn't mention the frozen shipment of arms worth hundreds of millions.

He spoke casually, as if discussing tonight's football game.

"The Mexican border has been rough lately. Keep an eye on the new smuggling routes."

"That custom CheyTac M200 sniper rifle you wanted? I had it flown in from Texas. Want to go to the Brooklyn warehouse tonight to pick it up?"

I stared at the limited-edition Patek Philippe watch on his wrist—the same model Bianca was wearing in the photo.

I stayed silent for a long time before speaking.

"Okay."

The three days at the warehouse felt like the old days. Before the marriage, when we were just heirs of two crime families working together.

He helped me check the serial numbers on the new Glocks.

He helped me calibrate the scope on the new sniper rifle. He even handed me the gun oil.

When his fingers brushed mine, he didn't pull away like he used to. There was a teasing touch to it.

On the last evening, we tested guns at the private range outside the warehouse.

I pulled the trigger.

Suddenly, he pressed against me from behind.

His broad hand covered mine, adjusting the angle of the muzzle. It was an aggressive, possessive posture.

"You're off. You didn't account for the wind speed. Aim a bit to the left."

His breath, smelling of tobacco, swept past my ear.

I instinctively tried to pull away, but he held tighter, his body pressed firmly against my back.

"Don't move. Let me teach you how to score a perfect headshot."

The bullet hit the bullseye.

The adrenaline spike made me momentarily forget the bitterness of this marriage.

Three hours later, we packed up to leave.

As we walked to the warehouse exit, we saw a black Cadillac parked on the side of the road.

Bianca sat in the passenger seat.

She rolled down the window and waved at us through the glass. Her fake Hollywood smile couldn't hide her smugness.

The next second, Dante’s hand on my shoulder suddenly pulled back.