I Trained My Wife’s Nineteen Lovers Before I Left Her

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I had a fever burning at a hundred and two and wanted nothing more than to lie down in the dark, but my wife's lieutenant wouldn't hear of it. He kept me in the club's back office, buried under the Family's books until the small hours.

Portia's off in the islands with her eighteenth consort, Rocco Greco said. "That makes me the man who runs the day-to-day now. Without my say-so, you don't so much as step past that door."

The bastard was doing it on purpose, angling for a place in line as my wife's nineteenth.

I wasn't having it. I called Portia directly.

She answered cold as a blade left in snow. "Rocco speaks with my voice. It's a little late work at the books, nothing more. Stop whining like a child."

That was the last blow I was willing to take. "Let's just dissolve the alliance."

Portia only scoffed. "Enzo, you really think you've got the stones to sever this? You're always running your mouth about it. But don't you forget, your mother's surgery still comes out of my strongbox every single month."

The line went dead, and within seconds Rocco had fired a message into the Family group chat.

[Enzo's threatening to walk out on the union again. You think he means it this time?]

Portia's vote came up instantly.

[Bluff]

This time, I was already halfway to the door.

This time, I meant it.

Enzo's POV

Word moved through the ranks like wildfire. The group chat lit up in seconds.

[Please. Pigs will fly before Enzo actually files to cut the alliance.]

[He's just talking for attention again. Somebody tell him to grow up.]

[Man lives off Portia's cash and still plays the diva. Without her he's back on the street, lol.]

Every soldier voted. [Bluff]

Portia was loving every second of it. She even dropped a screenshot into the chat, proof she'd just wired each of them a little "thank you" tribute for clowning me.

The men all thanked her, then took their turns carving me up for sport.

I only smiled to myself, tapped [Truth] on the poll, and typed one line.

[Already had my Consigliera draft the papers of release.]

Then I left the group.

Almost instantly, Portia messaged me directly.

[What the hell do you think you're doing? Trying to shame me in front of the whole Family? Want me to cut off your mother's treatment?]

I replied. [Go ahead.]

For eight years she'd held that threat over my head like a knife.

She never once put money in my hand.

Most days she forced me to eat other men's leftovers in the club kitchen, like some stray dog they let in out of the cold.

She made me shop for the gifts that rewarded her lovers.

Made me watch, while she kissed them, touched them, right there in front of me.

I lived in a half-finished room at the back of the estate, slept on flattened cardboard, and played the obedient husband just to keep breathing.

But that version of me? He'd had enough.

Last week I closed a major deal for the rackets, nearly coughing up blood to do it. But I got it done.

In front of the whole club, Portia had promised me forty-five thousand as tribute for the work.

That's enough to cover my mother's surgery.

And I have other offers now. A seat at another Family's table. Better money. Real respect.

So I started gathering my things, head pounding fit to split, ready to walk out for good.

That's when Rocco planted himself in the doorway.

"Who said you could leave?" he sneered.

I held up my resignation. "This."

He snatched it from my hand and tore it to shreds.

I looked at him, unimpressed. "There's no need to play tough, brother. If you're this desperate to be Portia's nineteenth, I'll do you the favor myself."

Coughing hard, I pulled a notebook from the drawer. "Here. Everything she likes, written down. Styles, gifts, positions."

Every time she took on a new consort, I was the one who had to run them through a few "training sessions."

I called it One Hundred Ways to Be Portia Falcone's Consort.

The son of a bitch grabbed the notebook and still wasn't satisfied. Instead he opened a video call in the Family group chat.

Within seconds the whole club had joined. Portia among them.

She was stretched out on a beach chair in the islands, cocktail in hand, grinning like the devil himself while Consort Number Eighteen worked oil across her half-bared body, his hands wandering where they had no business going.

"Portia," Rocco began, faking a tremor in his voice like a schoolboy running to tell tales. He licked his lower lip and his eyes flicked once toward the door behind him.

"Enzo's refusing to work. Tore up Family papers, shouted about walking out, called the both of us every filthy name he could think of. I don't know what to do with him anymore. It's your call."

This son of a bitch had already taken everything he wanted out of me and still wasn't satisfied. Now he was inventing sins and stoking the fire, all so he could kiss my wife's ring a little sweeter.

Enzo's POV

My head was pounding so hard I could barely think. Rage surged through me, so hot it nearly knocked me out cold. I gripped the edge of the desk in the back office of the social club just to stay standing.

Before I could even speak, Portia sneered on the screen.

"When a dog misbehaves, it deserves to be disciplined," she purred. "Boys, any ideas on how we should teach Enzo his place?"

The group thread blew up again, soldiers who owed their tribute to the Falcone name racing to please the heir.

[Didn't he say he's burning up with fever? Let's cool him down. Ice on him!]

[Yesss! The freezing treatment, loser's edition!]

Every made man in the chat piled on to join the fun.

Portia gave the nod, and Rocco went off barking orders like the favorite hound at her heel.

"Ten buckets. Make them freezing."

I barely managed to whisper, "Portia I really am sick"

"Quit faking. I know your tricks," she spat, like the words themselves were filth.

'But what does she know about my pain, my helplessness, my sorrow? Even the thing that "ruined" her that night a few years agoit wasn't even my choice'

The first bucket hit, dragging me back to the cold stone floor of the club. While it soaked my burning skin with bone-deep cold, laughter erupted all around me, digital, cruel, echoing off the low ceiling.

Then the second bucket. Then the third. One after another. All under Rocco's instruction, that lieutenant of hers directing the men like this was the day-to-day of the rackets.

I was shaking, drenched, teeth chattering. But it didn't stop.

From her lounge chair on some private stretch of coast, Portia laughed and threw herself into the arms of her 18th consort, kissing him slow and deep.

I couldn't take it anymore. Everything went blurry. My knees buckled.

I collapsed forward, smacking my forehead hard on the sharp corner of the mahogany table.

My blood poured instantly.

And just before I blacked out, I thought I heard Portia's voice, shaky, not smug.

"Rocco, are you just going to stand there?! Get him to a doctor now! If anything happens to him, I swear you'll regret being alive!"

When I came to, the first face I saw was hers.

"You're such a drama queen. Always sick, just like your mother. Must be the debt coming due," Portia began. "Getting bound to you was the worst damn luck I've ever had."

Arms crossed, she stared at me like I was something she'd scraped off her heel, the enormous heirloom ring on her right hand catching the light as she turned it, slow and idle.

Eight years ago, I was just the estate servant's kid. I'd just earned a seat at another Family's table, a real one, when the Falcones announced without warning that I'd be bound to Portia by blood-alliance.

They never even asked Portia.

She always thought my mother and I had schemed something to force her father's hand. No matter how many times I tried to explain, she didn't believe a word of it.

Then one day, I woke up after a night of drinking in her bed.

It was done. Irreversible.

The union followed like a trap snapping shut, sealed to bind me into the bloodline forever.

But Portia never let go of her anger. She put men on it, dug for answers.

And when the Don pressed for the truth, my already-ill mother took the blame. She said she was afraid Portia would never give me a chance, so she did something desperate.

I still remember the day Portia found out. She kicked me to the floor, trembling with rage.

"Damn it, Enzo! We were already together. I admired you! I even thought maybe maybe I'd take you as my own one day!

"And you and your filthy mother went and pulled this disgusting, gutter-born move to force me into this alliance?!

"Both of you are nothing but garbage!

"You both deserve to die!"

That same night, she brought her first plaything into the estate and made me serve them wine while they bathed together.

She made me kneel outside the door, listening while they laughed and moaned.

But no matter how she punished me for what she believed, I never believed my mother did it.

She was a good woman. Raised me on her own, lived humbly, never chased money or a name.

She always told me, "As long as we're safe and healthy, that's enough."

She even refused the Don and his wife over and over, until they swore they'd put the question to Portia directly.

But none of that mattered to Portia. She refused to listen.

After a long silence, I looked her in the eye.

"I'll set you free."

She snorted. "Please. Every soldier in the Family knows you're my number-one dog. You'd crawl back to me in another life."

As if she remembered something, she clapped her hands and smirked.

"Oh, right! Let me introduce you to number nineteen."

She lifted her chin high, like she was about to show off some new property she'd taken.

She was flaunting her latest consort.

It was supposed to make me feel something. Jealousy. Rage. Heartbreak.

But all I felt was nothing.

I looked at my so-called wife, and I pressed my thumb flat against the inside of my left wrist out of old habit, then slowly let the hand fall open. 'I don't really care now.'

Enzo's POV

Right after that, Rocco strolled into the private ward with a grin, wrapped his arms around Portia, and leaned down to claim her lips like a man planting a flag on conquered ground.

Their tongues tangled. They swapped spit like teenagers behind a social club.

I'd watched this scene too many times to count. It didn't make me jealous, didn't make me territorial, didn't stir anything in me anymore.

They were deep in the middle of it when a knock at the door cut through the room.

A poised woman stepped inside, her heels clicking soft and deliberate against the tile, the kind of walk that told every man in a room she answered to no one.

"Consigliera Vitale," I said, recognizing her instantly.

"Adriana?! What are you doing here?" Portia's eyes narrowed, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face.

Adriana smiled, casual and professional in the same breath. "Delivering the papers of release."

"The what?" Portia froze. For a heartbeat her whole body went still, as if she'd been struck. Then her face turned to ice.

I reached for the papers Adriana held out. "Thank you," I said, and managed a smile. "Dinner's on me sometime."

"No need." She reached out, touched my forehead, and smiled faintly. "Glad the fever's gone. Call me if you need anything, alright? Remember, you're not alone."

She had barely cleared the doorway when Portia's eyes narrowed into blades.

"What now?" she spat. "Planning to crawl to Adriana next? You two were awfully cozy back in your school days. But someone like you? A Vitale would only keep you around for sport."

I wasn't in the mood to argue. I simply held out the papers.

"Sign this," I said. "Let's both be free."

All the arguments. All the times I'd bent my neck. All the ways I'd tried to please her.

I'd done it hoping Portia would come to her senses, honor the alliance that bound us, and give me the time I needed to dig out the truth.

But it only made things worse.

The more I bent, the more she broke me. The more I gave, the more she hated.

Now I was just tired. Utterly, bone-deep exhausted.

She had never loved me. But instead of signing, Portia tore the papers of release in half, then again, then again, until the shredded pieces rained down into my lap like ash.

"You're my dog!" she screamed. "A dog doesn't get to choose his master!"

She turned to Rocco. "Take him to the car. I'll settle things with the doctors."

Rocco, smug and obedient as any low soldier eager to please, dragged me out like a piece of luggage.

But the second the doors sealed behind us and we were alone, his face twisted into something uglier.

He backhanded me hard.

"You son of a bitch. Just looking at your face makes my blood boil."

Same as the eighteen before him. No reason. Just hate. Some strange reflex they all shared the moment they understood I was still here, still standing where they wanted to stand.

I hated myself for still being this weak.

Eight years of swallowing bile and pretending it tasted fine would end here. I pressed my thumb hard against the inside of my left wrist, counting the beats the way I'd learned to as a boy, waiting them out. Now, at last, I was finding the strength to walk away from this ruin of an alliance.

"You know what?" he sneered. He licked his lower lip, eyes flicking once toward the stairwell door. "I'm gonna have your wife tonight. Do anything for you? Huh? Excited? Jealous? Want to watch?"

Hearing nothing from me, he snapped, "Say something!"

His fist went up again. But just then, the clack of heels echoed down the stairwell.

Rocco's eyes darted, and just like that he threw himself backward, rolling out of the car like a rat scrambling for its hole, painting me the villain all over again.

"Man, I was just trying to help you into the seat. Why'd you shove me?"

Portia rushed over to help him up. Then she rounded on me, wrenched open the door beside me, and hauled me out by the collar.

"You piece of filth! Beating on Rocco the moment my back's turned? You know what? You can sleep in the gutter tonight!"

She cursed at me, screaming as if I'd broken some sacred law of the Family.

I only gave her a bitter, tired smile. I didn't bother explaining.

Because none of this was new.

Her first consort accused me of scalding him with boiling water. The water had been cold. But Portia never cared for facts, never cared for details.

Just like that, she beat me with a feather duster and made me kneel, head bowed, hands raised in apology.

The second claimed I'd stepped on his shoes on purpose.

Just like that, Portia made me kneel again. That time, to lick them clean.

The third said I'd salted his food too heavily and accused me of trying to poison him, the way a made man fears the meal set before him by an enemy.

Just like that, Portia forced four spoonfuls of salt down my throat. I landed in the emergency ward that night.

The fourth botched a deal himself and laid it at my feet. Portia never once checked whether it was true.

Just like that, she marched me to his office, made me kneel before his whole crew, and forced a public confession from my mouth, taking all the blame onto myself before the eyes of the Family.

And that was only the surface of it. I could fill a book and still not reach the bottom.

In the beginning, I tried everything. Explaining. Swearing my innocence. Begging my wife to forgive me.

Enzo's POV

But everything I did was useless. Maybe the truth had never mattered to Portia at all. Not once in eight years bound to her blood.

"It's raining now. Perfect," she snapped. "Go stand in it and reflect on your pathetic self."

Then she kicked me. Hard. Right between my thighs.

She slid into the car with her nineteenth consort and drove off without looking back, the tires spitting gravel across the estate drive.

The exhaust blasted straight into my face.

The rain kept pouring, pounding down like rocks, drenching me and beating me into a mess on the ground beyond the Falcone gates.

Then headlights cut through the blur. A horn sounded, low and steady.

It was Adriana.

She stepped out without bothering with an umbrella, the rain flattening her dark coat to her frame, dragged me into the passenger seat, and said, "Do you want to go home, or?"

"To my mother's," I rasped.

Whatever "home" had meant inside the Falcone walls, I never wanted to set foot in that place again.

We drove to the cardiovascular hospital where my mother was being kept. My shirt still clung to my skin from the rain.

The moment we crossed the threshold, I ran into the attending physician.

I greeted him fast, asking about the surgery.

But he scoffed, looking at me the way men look at something they've already decided is worthless.

"Never seen a more ungrateful son," he snapped. "You gave up on your mother's surgery and took the money for the tables?"

I blinked. "What? No. I signed the forms myself. I moved the tribute straight into the hospital's account. How could I"

"Yeah?" The doctor frowned. "She was scheduled yesterday. The account was empty. We called you. You told us to cancel it because you were off to Alaska to gamble."

"What?" My head spun.

My phone had been dark since I collapsed. Dead three days. But when I thumbed it on, the battery still sat half full.

Someone used it while I was out. Someone wore my name and called the hospital in my voice.

"How is my mother now?" My whole body started shaking.

The doctor let out a heavy sigh. "She passed this morning. We tried to reach you again, but Her body's in the morgue."

Everything in me went numb.

I dropped to my knees, then scrambled up and ran straight for the morgue.

I pushed through doors, down cold hallways that smelled of antiseptic and something older beneath it. My knees gave out the second I saw her.

Everett. Still. Cold. Gone.

Her rough, work-worn hands lay folded in her lap the way they always had, and this time nothing lifted her chin, nothing left in her to protect me from.

The tears came all at once, ripping out of me like something primal.

I grabbed my phone with shaking hands and called Portia.

"You said the tribute was released. Where the hell is it?"

But the voice that answered wasn't hers.

It was Rocco. That son of a bitch.

"I held onto it," he said, easy as ever. "Figured I'd watch how you behave before I let the blood-money go."

"That was set aside for my mother's surgery," I shouted.

"Oh, yeah. Canceled it for you," he said, the smirk audible in every word. "No surgery, no money needed."

"You It was you" My rage boiled over, and I coughed up blood onto the tile.

"What can I say? Working you over makes my girl smile. Best entertainment in the city." And he actually laughed.

Then I heard Portia's voice behind him. "Baby, who's on the phone?"

"Enzo," Rocco drawled. "Begging for his tribute. Told him he's been slacking, so it stays put."

"Good boy," she giggled. "Tell him if he wants that money, he can kneel outside the front gate all night."

"And if he won't," she added sweetly, "we cut every payment on his mother's bills this month."

Then she leaned close to the phone. "Hear that, Enzo? One night. On your knees."

Rocco chuckled. "You heard the lady."

Then came the sound of them, right there, into the speaker, while I stood beside my dead mother.

I ended the call. I couldn't even scream. The humiliation pressed down so heavy I couldn't breathe.

I knelt beside her body, hands trembling, and whispered through my sobs. "I'm sorry, Mom I'm so sorry"

I pressed my thumb hard against the inside of my left wrist, counting a heartbeat that wouldn't slow, the way I had through every year of it. Then I let the hand fall open against the cold metal of the table, and I stopped counting.

I cried like I hadn't in years.

Adriana stayed with me the whole time, silent in the doorway, asking nothing.

And in the morning, when I could finally speak again, I brought the reckoning to the ones who owed for this. I asked Adriana to draw the papers that would sever the alliance.

Then I left the city and went home.

To bury my mother.

Portia's POV

I didn't lay eyes on Enzo, that bastard, for three days.

No answers to my messages. He actually ignored my calls.

And then? A summons to a sit-down over the dissolution of the alliance landed at my door.

I swept into the Consigliera's office with number nineteen a step behind me, both of us fuming.

"Where are you hiding Enzo?" I demanded, my voice climbing at Adriana.

That smug bitch didn't even blink. She set the folder in her hands down on the desk and squared its edge parallel to the table's before she spoke.

"He went home three days ago. His mother passed. He's burying her."