The Don’s Neglected Wife

The plane touched down in Tripoli at dusk.

Behind me, the sky was on fire. I pulled out my phone and typed a message to my husband, Don Vito Hart.

[I'm here. I came to bring you home.]

No reply.

I called his underboss, Enzo Stark. His voice was hesitant.

"You… you really went to Libya?"

An explosion rattled the terminal windows. My heart slammed against my ribs.

"Which district is he in?"

A long pause. Then, quieter:

"He never left the country."

His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "The business trip… it was a lie."

The line went dead. A photo appeared on my screen. Time-stamped today.

Vito was smiling. Bright, but something behind his eyes looked tired. His arm was wrapped around a woman. They were blowing out candles on a birthday cake.

I recognized her instantly.

Rosa Quinn.

The woman he'd knelt and sworn on his mother's grave never to see again. Three years ago. I still had the scar on my own palm where I'd made him swear.

Vito had forgotten. Today was my birthday too.

My phone buzzed again.

"Sera, the truth is—the Don never ended things with Rosa. We all knew. But you two seemed so happy… no one dared tell you."

I read the message twice. Then I slipped the phone into my pocket.

There was no need to pretend anymore.

"Ma'am, please use the emergency exit. Do not remain here."

The airport speaker crackled again. I took one step, and my legs gave way.

I had traveled through hell to get here. No sleep, no food, just the roar of engines and the taste of fear.

And for what?

On the flight back home, I finally let myself cry.

When I landed, I went straight to the law firm. I looked like hell — matted hair, cracked lips, hollow eyes. The elevator doors opened, and I heard a woman's voice behind me, playful and sweet.

"Who stole the lace one from my bag? Now I'm going commando. This is your fault."

A low laugh on the other end of the line.

"Careful. I'll make you pay for that later."

I turned slowly.

Rosa Quinn. Flawless makeup. A soft, smug smile.

She was still on the phone. "Do you still have enough in your drawer? Or did you use them all?"

The elevator doors closed. The mirrored walls reflected two women. One polished, young, laughing. The other — gray-faced, broken.

She didn't recognize me. Why would she? I barely recognized myself.

A man's voice drifted through the phone. Low. Familiar.

"You know I can't resist you."

She giggled. "If your wife heard that, she'd file for divorce again."

"Let her. I always bring her back. She can't leave me."

The elevator's air conditioning bit into my skin, but I felt like I was choking.

She lowered her voice, teasing. "Are you trying to make me jealous? Careful, or I'll walk into your office and announce to everyone that Don Vito Hart is