I Married You For Your Brother’s Face

I married the most ruthless Don in Chicago, but not for love, money, or power.

I married Luca Falcone because he was the only man on earth who carried the same DNA as his dead identical twin, Dante—the love of my life.

For three years, I played the role of the submissive, obsessed wife.

I endured his coldness. I cooked for his mistress, Sofia. I even stayed silent when Sofia pushed me down a flight of stairs in a jealous rage, nearly killing me.

Luca thought I stayed because I was weak. He thought the way I stared at his face was adoration.

He never realized I was looking right through him, seeing the ghost of the brother he could never live up to.

But the moment the second pink line appeared on the pregnancy test, my mission was complete.

I had secured the heir. I had brought a piece of Dante back to the world. The vessel was no longer needed.

I signed the divorce papers, packed my bags, and vanished into the night while Luca was busy with his mistress.

When he finally tracked me down months later, broken and begging on his knees for me to come home, I didn't feel a thing.

I looked down at the man who thought he was a King and delivered the final blow.

"I never loved you, Luca. I married you for the sperm."

Chapter 1

The instant the second pink line materialized on the plastic stick, my marriage to the most ruthless Don in Chicago was effectively over.

I didn't cry.

I didn't smile.

I simply placed the test on the marble vanity, right beside the diamond ring that weighed heavier than a shackle, and washed my hands.

The water ran ice-cold, numbing my skin, mirroring the frost that had settled permanently in my chest three years ago.

"Mrs. Falcone?" The voice drifting from the study was trembling.

I dried my hands on a plush towel and walked out.

Mr. Rossi, the family consigliere, was ensconced behind the massive mahogany desk.

He was sweating.

The thermostat read a crisp sixty-eight degrees, yet beads of perspiration gathered along his receding hairline.

He looked at the documents before him as if they were a death sentence.

"Have you drafted them?" I asked, my voice smooth, devoid of the tremors dismantling his composure.

"Elena... Mrs. Falcone," he stammered, adjusting his glasses. "These are annulment papers. If Don Falcone sees this... if Luca sees this..."

"He won't," I said, gliding over to the window.

Outside, the Falcone estate sprawled like a fortress, patrolled by men with assault rifles and hollow, dead eyes.

Luca Falcone.

The man who severed the head of a Russian Bratva leader with piano wire simply because they insulted his family name.

The man who ruled the city's underworld with a brutality that made grown men weep.

My husband.

"He is busy," I continued, turning back to the lawyer. "He is currently at the Ritz-Carlton with Sofia. I doubt he