He Was Mine Only After I Died

I'm married to Marcello Marchetti, the Don of the Marchetti family in Newstone. He has an adopted younger sister, Letizia Marchetti, who's supposedly a genius hacker. While she's not related to him by blood, he has raised her since she was a child.

One spends all her time wreaking havoc, while the other dutifully cleans up all of her messes for her. Everyone in Newstone knows just how much Marcello dotes on that sister of his.

Then, she hacks into my car remotely and messes with the brakes. The car crashes into the road divider at a speed of 120 miles an hour. It flips over three times, and I get caught under the wrecked metal, bleeding profusely.

By the time the ambulance arrives, I've gone into shock three times.

The blinding lights in the emergency room look like they're mocking me.

Marcello stands beside the nurse, signing the consent form as he sighs. "Don't be mad at Letizia. She just thought there was something wrong with the braking system for that car, so she decided to run some tests. She had no idea you'd be using it today."

Just then, his phone rings. He takes the call, and after just three seconds, his expression changes.

"What did you say, Letizia? Someone spiked your drink at the bar?"

He throws the pen down and heads toward the door at once, leaving in such a hurry that he doesn't realize he has selected the wrong blood type on the transfusion consent form.

When I see the bag of blood the nurse brings me, my lips twitch. I suddenly lose all desire to stay alive.

"Go ahead with the transfusion."

Stella's POV

"Mrs. Marchetti, you have Type A blood. This blood bag is Type B. Are you sure you want us to proceed with the transfusion?" the nurse asked as she held up the blood bag, her brow furrowed.

"Go ahead." My voice was as light as a feather. "My husband, Don Marcello Marchetti, signed the consent form himself. There's no way it'd be a mistake."

The nurse hesitated for a few seconds before finally letting out a sigh and tearing open the packaging. The moment the needle pierced my vein, a chill spread from my wrist straight to my heart.

Slowly, I closed my eyes. In under 20 minutes, I started feeling a dull pain in my lower back. It felt like someone was carving into my bones with a blunt knife.

Then came the fever. My whole body trembled. No matter how tightly I wrapped myself in the blanket, it didn't help. My teeth chattered, making faint clicking sounds.

At that moment, the door flew open with a kick.

Marcello Marchetti strode in, the collar of his shirt hanging open and a lipstick stain still visible on his neck. Behind him was Letizia Marchetti, who looked perfectly normal and unscathed. She was wearing a sequined spaghetti-strap dress, her eyes red-rimmed, making her look delicate and pitiful.

"What kind of stunt