His voice dripped with disgust. "You really think I kept our marriage secret for no reason? That I didn't want kids just because? I was giving you time—waiting for you to come clean! You think I could go public, have a child, with a woman who lied to me?"

I laughed.

Laughed until the tears came.

Of course. How could I forget?

This whole marriage was a damn fairy tale—built on lies from the jump.

Seven years back, I was fresh outta college, juggling shifts at some artsy gallery.

That night? Pouring rain. I ducked into an alley, dodging this creepy client who wouldn't take a hint.

Then he showed up—like some dark knight. Came outta nowhere, laid the guy out cold with a couple mean punches.

Rain dripping off his fancy suit, eyes like straight razors under that busted streetlamp.

Yeah. That's when I fell. Hard. No coming back.

Didn't take long to find out who he really was—

Leon Ferrante. Youngest Don in Northern Italvia. Boss of the Ferrante Family.

There was a damn canyon between us.

But I loved him. Crazy, stupid love.

I knew I was nothing—just some nobody with no business near his world.

So, I did the dumbest, riskiest thing I could.

I dove headfirst into mafia records, digging through every scrap I could find—

until I landed on one half-dead name: the Brioni Family.

Their legacy was toast, bloodline scattered, history a total mess.

Perfect.

I faked it—turned myself into some long-lost Brioni heir.

But just having the name wasn't enough.

A real Brioni would know how to shoot, how to survive Family politics.

So I got to work. Learned everything.

Stripped down weapons at 3 a.m., drilled mafia history until my brain fried, forced myself to act like cigars and wine were second nature.

Ten months. I crammed a decade into that.

Every time I got close to him—or anyone from his crew—I was walking a damn wire, scared stiff I'd blow it.

But I pulled it off. Fooled every last one of them. Even him.

First his Consigliere. Then his wife.

I really thought love and grind could close the gap.

But the way he's looking at me now?

Yeah... we were never real. Just lie stacked on lie.

I wiped my tears, locked eyes with him. "So you knew. The whole time."

Leon looked away. Typical.

"Hard not to. Last Brioni heir was a kid—died at fifteen. Your story had cracks. But..." He shrugged. "You picked things up quick. Decent shot. Not bad at negotiating. You helped out. So I put up with you."

"Put up with me?" I almost laughed. "You put up with me running your Family? Or playing housemaid while I raised your bastard kid for free?"

I scoffed. "What a saint. Bet you loved every second. While sneaking around with Carla—'cause a real Principessa wouldn't stoop like I did, right?

"You're not just a liar, Leon. You're a coward. A damn hypocrite."

Marcella looked like I'd slapped her.

Antonio? Shaking, eyes like saucers.

Leon's face went cold, eyes dead. Any flicker of emotion? Gone—replaced with straight-up fury.

"Enough!" he barked. "You don't get to yell at me! Know your damn place! You're a fraud who clawed her way into the mafia! If I hadn't tolerated you, you'd be fish food by now!"

I didn't flinch. Just stared, empty.

A fraud. That's all I ever was to him.

All those years—choking down every insult, every lie—thinking his love made it all worth it.

But now? The sweet cover was gone.

All that was left was bitterness—burning its way up my throat.

Leon turned away, fists tight. Looked like he wanted to say something—but didn't. Just walked off.

"Go to the confessional," he tossed over his shoulder. "Don't come out till you realize your mistakes."

Marcella scooped up Antonio, shot me a cold warning, and followed him out.

Once the door clicked shut, I pulled out the divorce papers, signed them, and left them right there on the table.

My biggest mistake? Hoping.

As I walked out of that mansion, it hit me—I'd left the pregnancy report in the bedroom.

Screw it.

He wouldn't care.

Even if it was the one thing he and his precious Family always wanted—a healthy heir.

But coming from a liar like me?

Yeah, meant nothing.

I turned into the alley and slid into the Rolls-Royce waiting for me.

***

Third-Person POV:

Leon didn't notice Anna was gone until dinnertime.

No food. Just Antonio bawling his lungs out, and nobody could shut him up.

Leon tore into the bedroom—bam, divorce papers on the bed.

First he blinked. Then he snapped. Flipped the whole damn desk.

Divorce? From him? She serious?

She hadn't worked in seven years. Where the hell would she even run?

It was one fight. Big deal. And since when did a mafia wife mouth off to her husband?

A paper slid off the vanity in the chaos. He caught it outta the corner of his eye, froze.

Picked it up slow.

Medical report.

[Eight weeks pregnant. Fetus developing healthily.]