My Mafia Husband Chose His ""Little Sister""—Until My Real Last Name Brought His Entire Syndicate To Its Knees

The final legal hearing for the dissolution of the marriage between Claire Bennett and Vincent Moretti took place in the private chambers of Judge Richard Hastings—a man whose judicial campaign had been quietly funded by my grandfather twenty years ago.

The room was quiet, save for the scratching of the court clerk’s pen.

Vincent sat at the defense table next to his exhausted, grey-faced attorney. He wore a simple, off-the-rack dark suit, his signature custom tailoring and diamond-encrusted cufflinks noticeably absent. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes permanently cast downward. He looked like a ghost of the man who had strutted through Chicago restaurants expecting everyone to stand.

Vittorio sat in the back row, leaning on his cane, looking frail and defeated.

I sat at the plaintiff's table with my lead attorney, wearing an emerald green silk blouse and a charcoal blazer. I didn't look back at Vincent once.

""The financial agreements have been reviewed and verified,"" Judge Hastings announced, adjusting his glasses. ""The defendant, Mr. Vincent Moretti, has signed a complete waiver of all claims to marital property, spousal support, and any corporate holdings associated with Bennett Financial or its subsidiaries. The prenuptial agreement is voided by mutual consent, and the divorce is granted unconditionally.""

The judge brought his gavel down with a sharp, echoing crack.

""You are officially restored to your maiden name, Miss Bennett. Court is adjourned.""

The clerk gathered the papers. My attorney shook my hand, smiling warmly. ""Congratulations, Claire. It is completely over.""

I stood up, smoothing my skirt, and turned to leave.

""Claire.""

Vincent’s voice was hoarse as he stepped into the aisle, blocking my exit just as he had done in the hotel lobby days ago. But this time, there was no arrogance, no anger, and no entitlement. There were only tears streaming down his hollow cheeks.

""Please,"" he whispered, his hands clasped together against his chest. ""Just tell me one thing. Did you ever love me? Or was it all just a test?""

I stopped and looked at him, feeling neither hatred nor pity—only the clean, cool indifference that comes after a fire has burned itself out completely.

""I loved you with all my heart, Vincent,"" I said softly. ""I gave up my family’s name, my comfort, and my pride to be your wife. I would have stood by you through war, poverty, and ruin. But you threw all of that away for a cheap kiss in an elevator because your ego couldn't handle being faithful.""

Vincent closed his eyes, a ragged sob escaping his throat as the realization of what he had truly lost crushed whatever remained of his spirit.