Too Late To Love Your Drowned Wife

I gave up my champion swimming career and my pride to be the loyal wife of the most ruthless Don in the American Cosa Nostra.

But when his runaway mistress faked drowning in our estate pool, my husband didn't see me trying to save her.

He hauled her from the water, swaddling her in a thick towel, and stood over me as I bled on the hot flagstones.

To break my pride, he dragged me up ten flights of stairs by my wet hair.

"Please, she jumped!" I begged.

But he just stared at me with cold loathing and shoved me into the freezing rooftop water tank.

I fought desperately for my life, but he stood at the edge like carved granite, stomping on my hands until my bones cracked and my lungs burned for oxygen.

The last thing I saw before I sank to my watery grave was my husband walking away to comfort the woman who framed me.

I had spent eight long years cleaning up his messes and playing the perfect Mafia Queen.

Why did my absolute devotion only buy my brutal execution?

Now, trapped as a ghost in our penthouse, I watched him trail kisses down her neck while my rotting body tainted his tap water.

But as he desperately tried to destroy the security footage of my murder, a cold fire burned in my hollow chest.

Even in death, I was going to tear his empire apart.