For eight years, I was Vincent Capelli's wife, his right hand, and the only person who ever saw the man beneath the Don's cold mask.

Then he got drunk at a negotiation, and slept with his secretary.

He called me first, voice shaking with guilt. "Bella, I made a mistake. I paid her off. She'll never come back."

I believed him.

Six months later, he was ambushed in Miami. His secretary drove through a hail of bullets to save him. And she was three months pregnant.

When she gave birth to twin boys, the whole Capelli family celebrated.

Framed for stealing the family heirloom, I asked for a divorce.

Vincent, desperate to keep me, dared me to drink a bottle of 150-proof spirit. He thought I'd never do it.

I reached for the bottle.

He stopped me, and gave me all the freedom I wanted. "Come back when you're done running," he said.

I left and never looked back.

Until the night three killers cornered me in an alley.

The heavy oak doors of the Capelli mansion creaked open, and the cold marble bit through the soles of my shoes.

I’d flown in from Sicily that morning, then drove two hours from JFK to the mansion.

The air smelled of lilies and cigar smoke, the same scent that had wrapped around me on my wedding day. Now it tasted like ash.

Down the hall, I heard them laughing.

Sofia’s high, tinkling laugh, sharp as broken glass, mixed with Vincent’s deep rumble.

The nursery door was ajar.

I paused in the doorway, my hand tightening around the strap of my handbag until my knuckles turned white.

Inside, Vincent sat in the oak rocking chair, holding one of the twins against his chest.

His face was soft, his eyes filled with a tenderness I’d never seen him show anyone but me.

Sofia stood beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder, while the old Don and Donna cooed over the other baby in the cradle.

They looked like a perfect family.

Vincent looked up, and his smile vanished.

He stood so quickly the chair scraped against the floor, handing the baby to Sofia.

"Isabella. You’re here."

Sofia turned, putting on that timid, wide-eyed smile I’d come to hate.

"Mrs. Capelli. It’s so good to see you. The boys have been waiting to meet their godmother."

I said nothing. I looked past them, at the walls.

Everything that had ever been mine was gone, replaced by pastel blankets and stuffed teddy bears.

The old Donna sniffed, turning away from the cradle.

"About time you showed up. We thought you’d hide in Sicily forever, running from your duties as Don’s wife."

"Enough, mother," Vincent said quietly.

The old Don cleared his throat, his eyes never leaving the baby. "It’s good you’re here. The baptism is in several days. You need to be there. It’s your place."

I nodded slowly. "I’ll be there."

Sofia stepped forward, holding out the baby in her arms. "Would you like to hold him? His name is Luca. After your father."

My jaw tightened.

My father had been a respected Capo, killed when I was sixteen. Vincent had held me as I cried over his grave, promising me no one would ever use his name for their own gain.

Before I could answer, the old Don held up a small silver cross on a chain.

"This has been in the Capelli family for three generations. It belonged to my father, and Vincent’s father. Today, it goes to Luca—the future Don of the Capelli family."

He placed it around the baby’s neck, kissing his forehead. "May it protect him from all harm."

Sofia smiled through tears. "Thank you, Don Capelli. It means everything to me."

I turned and walked out of the nursery. I could feel their eyes on my back, but I didn’t look back.

Vincent found me ten minutes later in the study.

"I’m sorry," he said, standing in the doorway.

I turned to face him. "When are you going to send her away, Vincent?"

His face hardened. "You know I can’t. She saved my life in Miami. She took a bullet in the arm for me. And she has my children."

"She saved your life because she knew exactly where you’d be," I said quietly. "She hacked your calendar, followed you to Miami, and waited for the ambush. She planned all of this."

"That’s enough," he said sharply. "I won’t have you speaking about her like that. She’s a good woman."

"And what about me?" I asked, and for the first time, my voice cracked. "I took a bullet in the stomach for you. I lost the ability to have children for you. I gave up everything for you, Vincent. And this is what I get."

He looked away, his jaw clenched. "You’re still my wife. You’re still the only Don’s wife the Capelli family has ever had. Nothing will ever change that."

Before I could respond, Sofia called out softly, "Vincent? The baby’s crying."

He turned and walked back to the nursery.

I stood there, alone, as he leaned down and kissed her forehead, whispering something I couldn’t hear.

An hour later, the old Don and Donna left, carrying the babies with them to show off to the family capos. And Vincent took care of some family business.

The house fell quiet, just the two of us.

Sofia saw me out on the balcony. She made her way over slowly.

"Mrs. Capelli, I know you hate me. And I don’t blame you. But I love Vincent. And I love my boys. I would never do anything to hurt you or the family."

I stared at her, cold and steady. "You already did."

She flinched, like I’d slapped her.

"I know you don’t believe me," she said, her voice trembling. "But I just want us to get along. For the boys."

I turned and walked out of the mansion. There's no point wasting breath on a whore who doesn't know her place.

The Long Island safe house was cold and empty. I’d only stayed here a handful of times, usually when there was a hit out on Vincent or me.

Now it felt like the only place in the world I could breathe.

I sat on the couch in the dark, from sunset to sunrise. The only sound was the rain tapping against the windows.

Memories flooded in, unbidden.

Vincent proposing to me on the beach in Sicily, his hands shaking as he held out the ring.

Him carrying me over the threshold of this very mansion, promising me he’d never let anything hurt me. Him holding me in the hospital after I’d taken the bullet for him, crying and saying he’d rather die than lose me.

Eight years of blood and loyalty and love. All gone, because of a secretary and a pair of twins.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers hovering over the screen for a long time. Then I typed four words and hit send.

I want a divorce.

Less than ten minutes later, the front door was kicked open.

Vincent stormed in, rain dripping from his hair and his leather jacket, his eyes wild. "Isabella! What the hell is this?"

I sat quietly on the couch, staring at him. "I told you. I want a divorce."

"No!" he shouted, slamming his fist against the wall. A crack appeared in the plaster.

"I will never divorce you! I don’t care what you think about Sofia, I don’t care what the family says—you are my wife, and that’s never going to change!"

"I’m tired, Vincent," I said softly. "I’m tired of sharing you. I’m tired of being second best. I’m tired of looking at you and seeing the man who broke my heart."

"I said she’d never affect us!" he yelled, his voice breaking. "I told you I’d take care of it!"

His phone rang, shattering the silence.

He pulled it out of his pocket, and his face fell when he saw the caller ID. He looked at me, then at the phone, his jaw tight.

"Don’t," I said.

"I have to," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "It’s the baby."

He answered the phone, and his face immediately filled with concern. "Sofia? What’s wrong? ... What? How high? ... I’ll be right there."

He hung up the phone and looked at me, his eyes pleading.

"Bella, the baby has a fever. The doctor says it might be meningitis. I have to go."

I smiled, a cold, bitter thing. "Go ahead, Vincent. Your family needs you."

He hesitated for a second, then turned and ran out the door. The front door slammed shut behind him, and the house fell silent again.

I laughed, a hollow, broken sound.

This was my marriage. Even divorce had to wait for another woman’s child.

The next morning, I called my lawyer and told him to draw up the divorce papers. Then I drove into Manhattan to the Capelli International headquarters.

The receptionist stared at me in shock when I walked in. "Mrs. Capelli! We didn’t expect you today."

"I’m here to resign," I said calmly.

I walked past her, down the hallway to my office.

My desk was neat, my files were organized, a photo of Vincent and me sitting on a Sicilian beach sat on the corner of my desk.

I picked up the photo, stared at it for a long moment, then put it in the trash can.

The head of HR arrived ten minutes later, her expression neutral but tense. "Mrs. Capelli, are you sure about this? Don Capelli has no idea you’re resigning. He’ll be furious."

I smiled faintly. "He’s got more important things to worry about right now."

She hesitated, then handed me the resignation papers. I signed them without a second thought.

When I got back to the safe house, I started packing my things. I didn’t have much—just a few clothes, some books, and a small wooden box under the bed.

I opened the box, and a yellowed piece of paper fell out.

I picked it up, my hands shaking. It was a note Vincent had written to me the night before our wedding.

Bella,

I don’t know what the future holds. But I know that as long as I have you, I can face anything. I love you more than life itself. Never leave me.

Forever yours,

Vincent

Tears fell onto the paper, blurring the words.

A sharp, stabbing pain hit my stomach, so intense I doubled over.

I gasped for air, clutching my stomach as the world spun around me.

The old bullet wound, acting up again.

The last thing I remembered before everything went black was the sound of my phone ringing.

......

When I woke up, I was lying on the couch. The sun had set, and the room was dark. My phone was still ringing, shrilly, from the floor.

I picked it up, wincing as my stomach protested.

"Isabella!" Vincent’s voice roared through the speaker, so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

I closed my eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Don’t play dumb with me!" he shouted. "Sofia just showed me the texts you sent her! Telling her her children are abominations, that they deserve to die! How could you say that?!"

I laughed, a bitter, empty sound. He didn’t even ask if I’d sent them. He just believed her.

"Are you done?" I asked calmly.

He fell silent for a second. "The baptism is this Sunday. You will be there. No excuses. Don’t make me come and get you."

"Fine," I said.

I hung up the phone and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and shattered into pieces.

I lay back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

I had nothing left. Nothing at all.