The Cleaning Lady Was Your Wife

I dragged my burned, battered body back from a cartel execution squad, disguising myself as a hired cleaner to enter my own New York penthouse.

Instead of a grieving family, I found my husband, my five-year-old son, and my best friend throwing a party to celebrate my assassination.

"We are celebrating because the bad lady is never coming back," my son chirped.

He had sold the sacred protection medallion I bought him to buy his father's mistress a diamond bracelet.

As I scrubbed the floors in secret, I listened to them laugh.

My husband had been sleeping with my best friend for seven years, secretly draining my elite Syndicate payouts to fund her lavish lifestyle.

My pregnancy was a calculated setup just to breed an heir for them so she wouldn't ruin her body.

They even pulled the fangs out of my loyal dog and sold him to an underground fighting pit because he tried to protect my memory.

I had taken bullets in the dirt and built our entire mafia empire from the shadows.

Why did the people I loved and protected repay my blood with such venomous betrayal?

But my husband made one fatal mistake when he orchestrated that cartel ambush.

He didn't make sure I was actually dead.

When the absolute ruler of the Syndicate arrived to deliver my posthumous honors, I wiped the medical concealer from my jagged scars.

I stepped out of the shadows and demanded a blood tribunal.