Not a Trophy Wife, but a Mafia Queen Chapter 02

Not a Trophy Wife, but a Mafia Queen Chapter 02

The line went completely dead for a few seconds.

Then, she abruptly hung up on me.

A second later, a text message flashed on my screen from Liliana Costa.

Donna, doesn’t all your wealth come from Don Moreau anyway? You shouldn’t use your title to bully subordinates.

I have already authorized a systemic freeze on all accounts associated with your name. I’ve also notified our banking partners and family associates that no loans are to be extended to you.

Once you’re ready to humble yourself, apologize for your behavior, and promise to stop bleeding the Don’s corporate accounts dry, I will consider restoring your access.

She concluded the text with a smiley face emoji.

A blatant, venomous provocation.

I stared at the screen, a thick wave of nausea rising in my chest as the contractions hit me back-to-back, harder than before.

Before the darkness fully claimed my vision, I forced my trembling fingers to dial the direct line of our chief legal counsel.

“Effective immediately…”

“Terminate Liliana Costa from all positions within the syndicate.”

“Revoke every security clearance she holds.”

“And—”

I gripped the phone with the last ounce of my strength.

“Suspend Massimo Moreau’s executive powers as Acting President.”

“Tell him to drag his pathetic ass to this hospital right now.”

The moment the final syllable left my lips, my world went entirely black.

A simple secretary.

Without a powerful man backing her up, she wouldn’t have the audacity to step on a Donna.

Yet, a part of me still struggled to accept the reality of it.

The man who had once sworn to throw away his entire future just to protect me.

Was he truly betraying me for a girl who had joined the firm thirty days ago?

The Moreau family commanded an empire worth hundreds of billions.

But in this generation, I was the sole heir to the bloodline.

Rather than entering a strategic corporate marriage and handing half of my birthright to a rival family, I preferred a different path.

I wanted a man who would marry into my house, a loyal lieutenant to guard the kingdom while I ruled.

To find someone genuine, I had hidden my identity and entered the Moreau Group as an entry-level analyst.

That was where I met Massimo.

Back then, he was just a fresh Ivy League graduate.

He wore cheap, off-the-rack suits and lived in a crumbling apartment in the roughest part of Brooklyn.

But he was strikingly handsome.

Blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a raw, dangerous ambition unique to men hungry to escape the dirt.

He arrived at the office before sunrise.

He was always the last one to leave the floor.

At two in the morning, you could always find him sitting under the harsh fluorescent lights of the accounting department, meticulously cross-checking data.

While others bitched about overtime, he silently audited entire ledgers for the fun of it.

Sometimes, I stayed late just to watch him.

In those quiet, empty midnight hours, his ears would turn bright red as he handed me a fresh cup of coffee.

“It’s not safe for you to commute this late,” he would murmur softly.

“Leave the rest of the spreadsheets to me. Go home, Ophelia. I’ve got you covered.”

In that generic cubicle, my heart skipped a beat for a man for the very first time.

But I truly fell for him during the project scandal a year later.

A senior analyst had stolen my market expansion strategy and presented it to the executive board as his own.

When I confronted him, he flipped the narrative, accusing me of intellectual theft.

The analyst was backed by a powerful regional VP.

The VP made the executive decision to fire me on the spot, threatening a multi-million-dollar lawsuit for leaking trade secrets.

At that exact moment, Massimo was on the fast track to a major promotion.

All he had to do was keep his mouth shut, and his corporate ascension would be guaranteed.

Instead—

He slammed both hands on the mahogany conference table, standing up abruptly.

The entire boardroom fell into a dead, terrified silence.

The young man stepped directly in front of me, his broad shoulders blocking me from the executives. His spine was perfectly straight.

“Ophelia is incapable of theft.”

“I put my career on the line for her.”

The VP let out a mocking laugh. “Your career? You’re a nobody. What is your guarantee worth?”

Massimo ripped his corporate ID badge off his neck and threw it onto the center of the table.

“If this syndicate forces out an innocent employee to protect a thief, then I don’t want a seat at this table anyway.”

“If she walks, I walk.”

Without waiting for a response, he grabbed my hand and led me out of the boardroom in front of the entire executive staff.

We ran all the way out of the Moreau Tower, into the brisk autumn air.

The city wind messed up his blond hair.

He was breathing heavily, but his first instinct was to turn and cup my face.

“Don’t look back,” he whispered. “I’m with you.”

That was the exact moment I chose him.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, letting go of all my standard reservations.

“Massimo, I love you. Do you love me? Marry me. Let’s do it.”

We were wed shortly after.

The ceremony took place on a private estate in Sicily.

The entire island was locked down by automated security systems for three full days.

Every major family from the global underworld arrived to pay their respects.

Countless Capos and billionaire oligarchs bowed their heads to me, kissing my ring and uttering the title with absolute reverence:

“Donna.”

And Massimo formally took the mantle of Don Moreau.

After the wedding, to prepare my body for the next heir, I slowly stepped back from the daily operations of the syndicate.

The casinos, the shipping routes, the tactical investments—I handed the keys to Massimo.

And for a while, he performed beautifully.

Within a few short years, the Moreau shadow network expanded exponentially.

Until six weeks ago.

Massimo came home and mentioned he wanted to sponsor a handful of underprivileged graduates from his alma mater, bringing them into the corporate pipeline.

I gave him my blessing.

Liliana Costa was among that select group.

Yet, within ten days of stepping foot into the building, she bypassed every senior analyst, rising from a standard assistant to the Don’s personal secretary.

Soon, the whispers started filtering back to my estate.

My sources within the administrative pool began sending quiet updates.

They reported that Liliana personally prepared gourmet lunches every afternoon, carrying them into Don Moreau’s private office.

The heavy oak doors would lock for hours at a time.

No executive dared to interrupt them.

Some staff members even claimed they saw Liliana exiting the suite in the evening, flushed and disheveled, wearing Massimo’s bespoke suit jacket over her shoulders.