My Mafia Husband, His Adopted Sister's Lapdog

I was the most envied mafia wife in Chicago, until his Tibetan Mastiff tore apart what remained of our child.

Everyone called it an accident. I knew it wasn't.

While I was bleeding out on the operating table, my husband was in the VIP ward, personally attending to his "traumatized" adopted sister. The whole family coddled her delicate state. Only I saw the smirk she couldn't hide behind every calculated "panic attack."

Then the Feds gave me a choice: keep playing the perfect, miserable wife, or vanish into a classified program so secret, I'd be dead to everyone I ever knew.

I signed. I uploaded the audio proof of their affair. I watched my old life disappear.

You swore you'd protect the family above all else, darling?

How fitting. My new mission is to protect this country from all threats.

Starting with you.

After learning that our child's remains had been destroyed by that Tibetan Mastiff, I completely changed all the habits Mikhail despised about me. I stopped asking where he went, stopped crying over his coldness.

Even when my bleeding disorder caused severe internal hemorrhaging from a minor fall, requiring emergency surgery, and the doctor asked me to contact a family member, I said flatly: "My husband is dead. I'm a widow."

After surgery, I was wheeled back to my room. The anesthesia hadn't fully worn off yet, and the nurse was checking my post-operative condition.

"Mrs. Volkov, your surgery was successful." The nurse flipped through my chart, looking somewhat confused. "But... you mentioned your husband passed away, yet your emergency contact lists Mikhail Volkov, and he's... actually upstairs in the psychology department."

Only then did I remember that Mikhail had been at this hospital almost every day recently. Not for me, but to accompany his adopted sister Bianca for psychological therapy.

Ever since our child's remains were devoured by that mastiff, she claimed the trauma had affected her mental state, requiring professional counseling.

The nurse looked uncertain: "Should I go get Mr. Volkov? According to hospital protocol, family members should be informed about surgical outcomes..."

"No need." I closed my eyes, my voice weak but firm.

The nurse hesitated: "But..."

"I said no need."

The nurse looked troubled but eventually nodded and left.

Less than ten minutes later, the door burst open with such force that the frame shook. Mikhail stood in the doorway, his suit slightly disheveled, blue eyes blazing with fury.

"Emergency surgery without notifying me?" He strode to my bedside, his voice kept low. "Do you know how worried I was?"

I glanced at him: "Just lost some blood. Nothing compared to one-tenth of what I lost during the miscarriage."

I remembered how delicate I used to be when we were dating—even a tiny scratch from a rose thorn would send me crying into his arms for comfort.

Now I'd just undergone major surgery without so much as furrowing my brow.

From his expression, I could tell he was remembering too.

Just as he was about to say something, sounds echoed from the hallway—a cart rolling past and hushed conversations among the staff:

"Mr. Volkov's still here."

"He's with that Miss Bianca every day. Three therapists rotating shifts, plus a private VIP room."

"I heard she has nightmares at night and can only sleep if Mr. Volkov holds her."

"Twenty-four-hour watch. More attentive than he is with his wife..."

I watched Mikhail's face darken instantly, his hands unconsciously clenching into fists. But I just lay there quietly, as if listening to gossip about strangers.

"Bianca had a mental breakdown after seeing... what happened to the child's remains. I can't just abandon her." His voice sounded stiff, like he was defending himself.

I looked at him coolly: "Of course. She's your adopted sister. Protecting family is your duty."

These were the exact words he used to dismiss my jealousy before. Now that I no longer cared, no longer minded, he seemed uncomfortable instead.

Suddenly, the door burst open again. Mikhail's assistant Marco rushed in: "Boss, Miss Bianca vomited up all her medication. The doctor says she's too agitated—the drugs aren't working at all."

"If she's vomiting, get new medication! Call the nutritionist! I'm not a doctor—why are you calling me?!" Mikhail whirled around, his voice nearly a shout.

After Marco retreated, Mikhail took a deep breath and sat beside my bed. His movements were careful, as if afraid I might flee.

"I'm sorry about... what happened to the child's remains. It was negligence on our part. I've dealt with the people responsible."

He reached for my hand: "We'll have another child. I promise I'll stay with you this whole week."

I quietly withdrew my hand, looking toward the window. His promises, like his affection, came far too late.

Mikhail frowned, about to say something when urgent footsteps echoed in the hallway, followed by the sound of something dropping.

"Careful!" A bodyguard's voice rang out.

Bianca stumbled into the doorway, one hand gripping the frame, her face pale as parchment. She tried to take a step forward, but her legs gave out, and she collapsed forward.

Mikhail immediately rushed to catch her: "You should be resting in bed."

"I wanted to see Calliope." Bianca clutched Mikhail's arm, her voice choked with tears. "I have to apologize for... for causing your child's death."

She curled deeper into Mikhail's embrace, tears streaming down: "It's all my fault... if I had watched Boris properly, your baby wouldn't have..."

Before, hearing such words would have sent me into hysterical screaming, demanding answers, sobbing uncontrollably. But now, I showed no reaction—didn't even bother lifting my eyelids.

"Don't say that." Mikhail held the trembling Bianca, his voice full of tenderness. "This isn't your fault. Boris is just an animal..."

"But Calliope..." Bianca lifted her tear-filled eyes toward me.

I remained lying with my eyes closed, perfectly still, as if already asleep.

Mikhail's gaze lingered on me for several seconds, some unreadable emotion flickering in his eyes. He lowered his voice: "Let me take Bianca upstairs first. I'll be right back to stay with you."

Then he carried Bianca away.

Night fell deeper, and footsteps in the hallway grew sparse. I stared at the ceiling, listening to distant ambulance sirens until well past midnight. He never returned.

My phone suddenly rang.

"Mrs. Volkov, this is Special Agent Johnson from the FBI." The voice was serious and official. "Regarding the biodefense project—have you given it more thought? This is a classified national program. Once you join, you'll be stationed in government laboratories for decades, completely cut off from the outside world, including your husband..."

"Confirmed." I cut him off calmly. "I've filed for divorce. Once the waiting period ends in a week, I'll report directly."

Silence stretched across the line: "Mrs. Volkov... are you serious? Everyone at the CDC knows how much you sacrificed for Mr. Volkov. You could have been Chief Researcher in the Biodefense Division years ago..."

A sharp pain stabbed through my chest.

I'd always been rational, maintaining calm and logic in every situation. But when it came to Mikhail, all my reason would instantly crumble.

I remembered our Harvard days ten years ago, when we were the envied academic couple. I was always second in our class, never able to catch up to his first place.

Junior year, I confessed my feelings with a blushing face. He leaned lazily against a library table: "Get a full scholarship to medical school, and I'll marry you."

It sounded like a joke, but I took it seriously.

The proposal at graduation was indeed as romantic as a fairy tale—rose petals cascading from a helicopter over all of Boston while media went wild covering the "perfect academic wedding."

"Marry me, Calliope." He knelt on one knee, those blue eyes holding what I thought was deep love.

Years later, I realized the timing of that proposal was too convenient—right during the week I won the International Biomedical Award, when my academic reputation was strong enough to overshadow any scandals about the Volkov family.

"Are you really decided? You once loved him so much..." The agent's voice pulled me back to reality.

A bitter laugh escaped my throat. Love. Such a naive word for what I'd felt.

"Agent Johnson," I said, my voice steady as surgical steel, "I'm not having second thoughts, and I never will. Because I stopped loving him long ago."

The words had barely left my lips when the door suddenly burst open.