You Wanted an Ornament, You Got a Mafia Queen Chapter 01

You Wanted an Ornament, You Got a Mafia Queen Chapter 01

At the Santoro family dinner, my fiancé Marco walked in late, and he didn’t come alone.

He had his assistant Bianca on his arm.

He didn’t even greet Grandfather Giovanni first. Just raised a hand like he’d shown up to some corporate cocktail party.

“Elysia.” He looked at me, completely matter-of-fact. “Go sit across the table. Bianca’s shy. She likes sitting next to me.”

One sentence. The whole table went quiet.

I didn’t hesitate for a single second.

I pushed back my chair. The legs scraped against the floor, a sharp, clean sound. I walked to the head of the table.

To the seat right beside the Patriarch himself. Don Giovanni Santoro.

The power center of the entire room.

Even Marco blinked. His eyebrow went up.

He hadn’t expected me to walk past him and plant myself at the heart of the family.

He guided Bianca into my old seat with one hand, smooth and automatic. Like rearranging furniture.

Seconds later, my phone lit up.

[You’re mad again? I told you, I’m just introducing Bianca to the family. Stop being so jealous for no reason.]

I didn’t reply. I just lifted my wine glass and took a slow, quiet sip.

Then another text:

[We’re going to try on the wedding dress after this. Don’t give me that look, okay?]

I smiled.

Just barely.

But it was enough for Don Giovanni, who was speaking across the table, to pause. His gaze dropped to me with something quiet and heavy behind it.

He saw it.

He just didn’t know what it meant.

The wedding dress?

There was nothing to try on anymore.

Ten minutes before Marco had walked through that door, I’d been in the study making a deal with Don Giovanni.

The engagement was off.

My phone buzzed softly.

A flight alert: departing in three hours.

Marco. After tonight, we’re done.

“Don Giovanni.” Marco raised his glass, voice easy and light, almost flippant. “To your health, and to the Santoro family’s continued success.”

He smiled and added:

“Oh, and this is my new assistant, Bianca. She’s been doing excellent work. I brought her tonight so you could meet her.”

Bianca jumped up and held out her glass with both hands, her voice soft and sweet:

“Wishing you long health and happiness, sir.”

The old man at the head of the table didn’t respond right away.

He just set down his steak knife. Slowly.

The air in the entire dining room dropped about ten degrees.

“Marco.”

Don Giovanni’s voice was low. Not loud, but it pressed down over the whole table like a hand.

“Are you trying to embarrass me at a family dinner?”

“Bringing an outsider to the main table?”

His eyes were sharp. The kind that reminded you of a judge from another era.

“Your fiancée is sitting right here. And your attention is on your assistant?”

Bianca’s fingers visibly trembled. She shot a desperate look at Marco.

Marco didn’t look at her.

He looked at me.

“Did Elysia say something to you?”

There was barely-contained irritation in his voice.

Don Giovanni let out a short, cold laugh.

“Her?”

“She didn’t bother mentioning you.”

He dropped his napkin on the table. His voice went colder.

“I saw it myself.”

“These past few months, did you really think I needed someone to tell me?”

The air went completely still.

Marco’s expression shifted.

He set down his glass. His voice sharpened:

“I brought Bianca on a work trip. We stayed in the area for a few days. That’s a problem now?”

I let out a soft laugh.

Not loud.

But unmistakably clear.

He turned to me immediately.

“What’s funny?”

I didn’t look at him. Just looked down at my wine.

“The business partner in Vegas, was that your call, or did you swap them out for her? You already know the answer.”

One sentence.

Marco’s expression finally cracked.

“Elysia.” His voice dropped. “You’re not even a Santoro yet, and you’re already second-guessing my business decisions?”

“Calling a company restructure a personal problem? Don’t project your emotions onto me.”

A beat. His tone went icy.

“And don’t use cheap tactics to make me look bad.”

Dead silence at the table.

Only the faint shimmer of the chandelier played across the white tablecloth.

Bianca kept her eyes down, but she snuck a glance at me.

That glance made me think of everything on her social media.

All those carefully documented “work trips.”

[He switched out his fiancée’s family’s business deal just to take me along. OMG.]

[He only booked one room and didn’t even say anything about it.]

[Does this mean what I think it means…?]

The comments section, all encouragement, all implication. Every one of them liked by her.

Thirty posts.

Photo after photo that looked innocent on the surface, but wasn’t.

It burned to look at. Burned somewhere deeper than my eyes, right in the place that had been beating for him for over a decade.

For five whole days, every message I’d sent went nowhere.

My calls had gone through exactly once.

And it wasn’t Marco who picked up.

It was Bianca.

Her voice was light, almost amused. “You’re looking for Marco? He’s in the shower right now.”

That was the moment I decided to end the engagement.