He Faked Amnesia To Abandon His Wife

The neurosurgeon looked at me with pity, delivering a diagnosis that severed seven years of devotion in a heartbeat.

According to the scans, my husband, Dante Rizzoli, remembered how to strip a Glock blindfolded and launder millions.

He just didn't remember loving me.

Overnight, I went from being the cherished Mafia Princess to an unwanted stranger in my own penthouse.

While I filled our home with his favorite lilies trying to spark a memory, Dante brought home Gia.

She was loud, tacky, and draped over him like a cheap suit. The Capo had forgotten his wife, but he seemed to remember his lust perfectly fine.

I swallowed the humiliation, clinging to the hope of his recovery, until I stood outside his office door with a tray of espresso.

I heard his dark, amused laugh rumbling through the wood.

"The amnesia is the most useful card I've ever played," Dante told his soldier.

"It buys me time to enjoy Gia without the family breathing down my neck. Elena is a boring, safe relic. I need fire, not a porcelain doll."

My heart didn't race. It stopped.

The medical anomaly was a lie. He hadn't forgotten me; he was just done with me.

I set the tray down silently. I wasn't going to wait for him to remember anymore.

I walked out of the penthouse and dialed a number I hadn't used in years.

"Get the new ID ready," I whispered into the phone.

"Elena Vitiello dies tonight. Livia Moretti leaves at dawn."

Chapter 1

Elena Vitiello POV

The neurosurgeon looked at me with a pity that felt like a scalpel, delivering the diagnosis that would sever seven years of devotion in a single heartbeat.

According to the scans, Dante Rizzoli remembers everything-how to strip a Glock blindfolded, how to launder millions through shell corporations, how to kill a man with his bare hands.

He just doesn't remember loving me.

Only three hours earlier, I had been standing in the gallery of our shared estate, carefully mixing cerulean blue to fix a hairline crack in a seventeenth-century Madonna. That was my role in Dante's life. The fixer. The one who smoothed over the rough edges of his brutal existence as the Capo of the New York outfit.

I was the Mafia Princess, protected and cherished, living in a gilded cage constructed of his possessive love.

A housekeeper had entered, carrying a bouquet of Baccara roses so dark they looked like dried blood. The card tucked inside bore his sharp, aggressive handwriting.

My Elena. Forever.

I had pressed the card to my chest, smiling like a fool. We had history. Seven years of it. From the promise he made to my father when I was eighteen, to the summers in the Hamptons where he taught me that a man with blood on his hands could still touch a woman with reverence.

He was my protector. My world.

Then the phone rang.

Dante's voice was on the line, but it wasn't Dante. It was