The Lies They Told in Sicily

It was my sixth year with the Mafia Don. On the night of my birthday, he came home with a young, beautiful stranger by his side.

Everyone thought I would break down or fall apart because of his betrayal. Instead, I smiled, my fingertips brushing lightly over the diamond ring on my ring finger. What they didn’t know was that I had come for revenge.

Six years ago, he killed my father and my fiancé. So, I remained by his side, waiting for the right moment to send him to hell.

How could I have fallen for him?

Late at night, the entire manor was lit up. I sat alone at the long dining table and relit the candles on the birthday cake.

“Eliza, stop waiting.

“The Don said he has business tonight. He’s not coming back.”

The lighter clicked open and shut in my palm, its faint blue flame flickering in the dark. I stared at the unsteady fire and replied calmly, “If he doesn’t come back, then I’ll keep waiting. He promised he would spend my birthday with me every year. I’m going to wait for him.”

I refused to believe he would forget my birthday.

Mark Carillo was the youngest Mafia Don in Sicily. When he gave his word, he kept it. He had never broken a promise. He had taken a family that was on the brink of collapse and turned it into a force that now controlled half the Mediterranean underground scene, all because he always honored his word.

By three in the morning, the manor was still silent. He wasn’t coming back, and everyone understood that. The living room was filled with bodyguards in tailored suits. Anyone who didn’t know better would think I was preparing for a shootout instead of waiting for my husband.

Disappointed, I finally stood up, ready to leave. That was when the low growl of an engine echoed from outside.

“Eliza! The Don’s back!”

I walked to the balcony and looked down.

Yes. He had come back, but he wasn’t alone.

“Mark, why are you home so late? Where did you go? And who is the woman in your arms?” I frowned as I called down to the man standing below.

A deep wound ran from his brow to his cheekbone, cut so viciously it nearly exposed bone. Blood still seeped slowly from the gash. The injury only made his already imposing face look even more ruthless.

I hurried downstairs, grabbing gauze to clean the blood, but he caught my wrist before I could touch him.

“Eliza, who allowed you to speak to me in that tone? Have I spoiled you too much all these years?”

He looked down at me. His voice was gentle, but there was an unmistakable authority that couldn’t be questioned.

I lowered my eyes. “I’m sorry. I was just angry. Yesterday was my birthday. You promised you’d spend it with me every year.”

He let out a soft laugh, his thumb brushing slowly against