I Married You For Your Brother’s Face

Luca POV

The private wing of the hospital reeked of antiseptic and old money.

I loathed it.

Sofia perched on the edge of the exam table, swinging her legs back and forth like a petulant child. She looked fine. She looked better than fine; she looked bored.

"I told you, Luca, it's just a little dizziness," she whined, inspecting her manicured nails. "I don't need a doctor. I need a shopping spree."

I leaned against the wall, checking the Rolex on my wrist for the third time.

Elena should have landed in Paris by now.

I had tried calling her twice. Both times, it went straight to voicemail.

It gnawed at me. Elena always answered on the first ring. Always.

The doctor walked in, clutching a clipboard to his chest like a shield. Dr. Aris. He was the family OB-GYN, the one who handled the wives and mistresses of the Chicago Outfit with equal discretion.

"Ms. Moretti," he nodded, his professional mask slipping slightly. "Your vitals are stable. It's likely just dehydration."

"See?" Sofia hopped off the table, smoothing her skirt. "Can we go now?"

Dr. Aris looked at me. He hesitated, his eyes darting nervously.

"Don Falcone," he said, lowering his voice. "While you are here... I wanted to ask about your wife."

I stiffened, pushing off the wall. "What about her?"

"She missed her appointment yesterday. It's the second one she's rescheduled."

"Appointment for what?" I asked, frowning. "She has migraines?"

Dr. Aris looked confused. He adjusted his glasses, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow.

"No, sir. Her prenatal checkup. For the pregnancy."

The world tilted on its axis.

The hum of the air conditioner cut out into a deafening silence. The sound of Sofia's heels clicking on the tile evaporated.

All I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears, roaring like the ocean.

"Pregnancy?" I repeated. The word felt foreign, heavy as lead in my mouth.

"Yes," the doctor said, looking terrified now. "She's... she's almost four months along. The records show-"

Four months.

My mind reeled back, searching.

The loose dresses.

The herbal tea that smelled like dirt.

The way she cradled her stomach when she fell down the stairs.

The stairs.

Ice flooded my veins, freezing me in place.

She fell down the stairs because I pushed her. I had put my hands on my pregnant wife and shoved her.

"Luca?" Sofia touched my arm. "What is he talking about? She's pregnant?"

I slapped her hand away as if her touch burned.

"Get out," I snarled at the doctor.

"Sir, I-"

"GET OUT!"

The doctor fled without looking back.

I pulled out my phone. My hands were shaking so violently I dropped it once before I could unlock it.

I dialed Elena.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

I stared at the screen, the mechanical voice mocking me.

Not in service?

I opened WhatsApp.

User not found.

Panic clawed at my throat as I opened the tracking app I had installed on her phone years ago.

Signal Lost. Last location: O'Hare International Airport. Terminal 3 trash receptacle.

She wasn't in Paris.

She wasn't shopping.

"Luca, calm down," Sofia said, her voice shrill and grating. "So she's pregnant. It's probably not even yours. You know how she-"

I turned on her slowly.

The look on my face must have been demonic, because she took a step back, her hip hitting the metal counter with a clang.

"Not mine?" I whispered, my voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. "She has looked at no one but me for three years. She worships the ground I walk on."

But did she?

Is the man you love in this room?

No.

The memory hit me like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of me.

She told me. She told me to my face, and I was too arrogant to hear it.

She didn't take clothes. She took the box. The box with Dante's things.

She wasn't on vacation.

She was gone.

And she had taken my heir with her.

I didn't say another word to Sofia. I turned and sprinted out of the room.

I ran through the hospital corridors, blind to the nurses, shoving past security.

I burst out into the parking lot, gasping for air, clutching my chest as if my heart were failing.

"Elena!" I screamed her name at the grey sky, raw and desperate.

Silence.

Only the wind answered.

She was gone.

Luca POV

I slammed the SUV into the front gate of the estate.

I didn't mean to. My hands were shaking too hard to grip the wheel, and my vision was blurred by a panic I hadn't felt since the night Dante died.

Metal screeched against stone, a horrific, grinding sound. The airbag didn't deploy, but the impact jarred my teeth to the roots.

I didn't check the damage. I left the engine running, the door hanging open, and I ran.

The gravel crunched under my dress shoes as I took the steps two at a time, bursting through the heavy oak doors.

"Elena!"

My voice echoed in the foyer.

It bounced off the marble floors and the high ceilings, mocking me. It was the only sound in the house.

Usually, there was a rhythm to this place. The sound of her heels clicking. The faint scent of the lilies she insisted on keeping in the vases. The quiet hum of her existence.

Now, it was a tomb.

"Elena!"

I sprinted up the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I threw open the door to the master bedroom.

The bed was made. Perfectly smooth. Not a single wrinkle.

I strode to the walk-in closet.

I ripped the doors open.

My breath hitched.

Her clothes were still there. The designer dresses I had lavished upon her. The furs. The silk blouses. The rows of Louboutins she rarely wore because they hurt her feet.

She hadn't left. She couldn't have left. Her things were all here.

I let out a laugh, a jagged, hysterical sound that scraped my throat.

"She's here," I whispered to myself. "She's just... she's just hiding."

Then I saw the gaps.

The wooden hangers where her simple cotton shirts used to hang were empty. They swung slightly, clinking together.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

I went to the shelf where she kept her jewelry.

The diamond necklace I gave her for our first anniversary? Here.

The emerald earrings from the Christmas gala? Here.

The sapphire bracelet I bought to apologize for missing dinner last month? Here.

Everything I had ever given her was here.

I yanked open the drawer where she kept the sentimental things. The things she brought with her when we married.

Empty.

The old silver locket with her grandmother's picture. Gone.

The leather journal she wrote in every night. Gone.

The crude wooden bird Dante had carved. Gone.

She hadn't taken my wife's things. She had taken Elena's things.

She had stripped herself of everything that made her Mrs. Falcone and took only the parts of herself that belonged to the past. That belonged to him.

I staggered back, hitting the island in the center of the closet.

I slid down to the floor, my expensive suit rubbing against the carpet as my legs gave out.

I pulled my phone out. The screen was cracked from when I had dropped it at the hospital.

I dialed her number again.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

"Pick up," I begged the robotic voice. "Please, just pick up and tell me you're punishing me. Tell me you want me to beg."

Silence.

She wasn't punishing me. Punishment requires engagement. Punishment requires caring enough to want the other person to hurt.

This was indifference.

She didn't care enough to fight. She just erased me.

My phone buzzed.

A name flashed on the screen. Sofia.

I stared at it.

A wave of nausea rolled over me. The sight of her name, the memory of her voice whining about a headache while my wife-my pregnant wife-was fleeing the country, made me want to vomit.

I didn't answer.

I threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying crunch and shattered into jagged pieces.

I sat in the dark closet, surrounded by millions of dollars of clothes that belonged to a ghost.

"Elena," I whispered.

But the house didn't answer. It just held its breath, waiting for a queen who was never coming back.