Christmas Downfall: Don, You Shouldn't Harass A Mafia Princess

It was a lazy afternoon three months later.

Dark green ivy crept over the cast-iron bench in the old mansion's garden.

Between my fingers, I held the financial report of my new company, but my gaze drifted to the distance-two bodyguards in black suits, miniature communicators tucked behind their ears, stood with their backs to me, hidden behind the laurel trees.

The faint silver iris badge on their collars marked them as members of the Iris Syndicate, the family my husband William belonged to.

Frank approached quietly, his leather shoes crunching softly on the gravel path, a bone china tray of tea and pastries in his hands.

"Ma'am, Daniel's been up to something new," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Last month, he rented a tiny 15-square-meter office in the west end, trying to pick up small construction jobs. Our men have been keeping tabs, every client he's approached is either some small-time boss he screwed over back in the day, or..."

He paused, his knuckles tapping the edge of the tray.

"...lower-ranking lieutenants from the Syndicate, sent to mess with him on purpose."

I lifted my teacup, the curling steam blurring my vision.

The west end was a tangled mess of fledgling startups and the Syndicate's gray-market operations-by setting up shop there, Daniel was practically snatching food from a tiger's mouth.

"He still doesn't seem to get it," Frank went on.

"He's still wearing that Savile Row suit he had tailored three years ago, had it dry-cleaned and pressed eight times, but the fraying on the lapels is impossible to hide. Last week, he met with a client who does building materials. The guy asked if Daniel could handle a project with a 100,000- budget, and Daniel blew a fuse right then and there.

'Chump change compared to the loose change in my old contracts,' he said. Turns out that client was Tiger-the Syndicate's man in charge of construction material transport. He slammed the contract on Daniel's face and sneered, 'Mr. Daniel, now you're not even fit to shine my shoes.'"

I could picture the scene vividly: Daniel sitting in a cramped conference room, a rickety ceiling fan creaking overhead.

He wore that suit-still immaculately cut, but undeniably worn-out-trying to throw his weight around like the high-powered CBD executive he used to be, only to be publicly humiliated by a mafia underling reeking of cigarettes.

Those hands that once signed billion deals now turned red with rage haggling over a measly 100,000- project-and he didn't dare lay a finger on Tiger.

Little did he know, Tiger kept a modified Beretta holstered at his waist at all times, its serial number registered in the Syndicate's weapons vault.

"And then there's Lola..."

Frank's tone dripped with disdain.

"She kicked up a huge fuss at a luxury boutique yesterday afternoon. She had her eye on a Hermès Birkin and demanded Daniel pay for it. He told her he only had 30,000 left in his card, and she smashed the bag right on the counter. '

You swore you'd take care of me for life!' she shrieked.

'Now you can't even afford me a bag-what kind of man are you?' Our men saw on the security footage that the diamond necklace around her neck was a sample Daniel stole from one of the Syndicate's jewelry stores last year. It's been marked by us from day one."

What the report didn't say was that right after Lola's tantrum, the boutique manager called Frank directly, asking, "Shall we have her taken into custody?"

Frank's order was clear: "No need. Let her make a scene-let her push Daniel to his breaking point."

I set down my teacup and stared at the camellias in full bloom in the courtyard.

Their petals were a deep, blood-red hue-just like the marks left on my arm when Lola dug her nails into me as she stood beside Daniel on Christmas eve.

The next day, Daniel's biggest client suddenly terminated their contract-and the signature on the termination letter belonged to the head of the Iris Syndicate's Italian branch.

Daniel had never stopped to think that the "true love" he'd abandoned ten years of marriage and broken every vow for would turn so ugly once the money dried up.

He'd never realized that his success in the CBD wasn't due to his own "ability"-it was all because my father had quietly funneled the Syndicate's resources his way. Everything he thought he'd earned was just a sugar cube tossed casually by a mafia tycoon.

I saw Daniel again a month later, at the Ivan House Charity Gala.

The gala was held in the top-floor ballroom, where crystal chandeliers dazzled the eye.

Amidst the sea of elegant gowns and tailored suits, silver iris brooches were everywhere.

I'd just finished chatting with Alex about a new energy collaboration when I turned and spotted Daniel standing alone in a corner.

The fraying cuffs of his suit glinted under the lights, impossible to miss.

He had no one beside him-not even Lola-just a half-empty glass of cheap champagne in his hand.

When he saw me, he hesitated for a long moment before walking over, as if he were marching to his execution.

My bodyguards moved to block him, but I stopped them with a glance.

"Anna," he said, his voice rough and dry, like sandpaper scraping wood.

"Can we talk? Alone?"

I glanced at the Patek Philippe on my wrist-a watch embedded with a micro-camera linked directly to the Syndicate's surveillance center. "Five minutes."

The wind on the terrace was biting, whipping his tie askew.

He gripped the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Not far behind him, in the shadows, Frank leaned against the wall smoking a cigarette.

"I know how ridiculous this sounds," Daniel said, his eyes pleading, almost groveling.

"But I don't want you to hate me forever. At first, I only helped Lola because she reminded me of those days in college when I worked as a cement hauler... Do you remember?"

"I remember," I cut him off, my voice flat.

"That construction site where you carried cement? It was an Browns Syndicate property. My father told the foreman to slip you an extra 200 in overtime pay."

Daniel's face drained of all color in an instant.

He'd had no idea. Everything he'd thought of as his "self-made success" had been tainted by the mafia from the very start.

"Later, she'd stay late at the office just to bring me lunch... And that rainy day, her clothes were soaked through. I just felt sorry for her..." He trailed off, his voice growing smaller, still making excuses.

"So you slept with her out of sympathy?" I couldn't help but laugh. "Or was it because you thought the Syndicate's resources would always be there for you to leech off?"

Daniel's lips trembled.

"The day you were on a business trip, she cried and said she was scared of the thunderstorm. She begged me to stay with her... I'd had too much to drink, and when I woke up, she was already..."

"Lying next to you?" I finished the sentence for him, the contempt in my eyes impossible to hide. "How cliché." William always says, 'A traitor's excuses are always weaker than their bones.'"

"William..." Daniel's head shot up, his eyes filled with terror. "You and him... you..."

"We've been married for three years," I said, lifting my hand to show him the massive diamond ring on my ring finger-a custom piece William had made with a pink diamond smuggled out of South Africa.

"Did you really think you could dominate the CBD for five whole years on your own? Who do you think gave you the guts?"

Daniel's shoulders slumped forward, as if all the strength had been sucked out of his bones. His eyes welled up with tears as he grabbed my wrist, his nails digging into my skin. "Anna, please-give me another chance. I know I was wrong. I'll do anything for William-anything. I'll even collect debts for the Syndicate!"

I pulled my wrist out of his grasp gently, my voice cold and final.

"No."