Too Late, Mr. Don: The Wife You Buried

I went to the family lawyer for a routine travel clearance. Instead, I was handed a divorce decree. The ink was three years old.

While I had been playing the role of the dutiful Capo's wife, Dante had secretly divorced me the day after our fifth anniversary.

Twenty-four hours later, he legally married the nanny, Gia, and named her cruel-eyed son as his heir.

I returned home to confront him, only for the boy to throw boiling tomato soup on me.

Dante didn't check my burns. He cradled the boy and looked at me with pure, drug-fueled hatred, calling me a monster for upsetting his "son."

The final blow came in a parking garage. A car sped toward us.

Dante didn't pull me to safety. He shoved me into the vehicle's path, using my body as a human shield to protect his mistress.

Lying broken on the asphalt, I realized Aria Vitiello was already dead to him. So, I decided to make it official.

I arranged a private flight over the Atlantic and ensured there were no survivors.

By the time Dante was weeping over the wreckage, realizing too late that he had been poisoned against me, I was already in France.

The Canary was dead. The Reaper had risen.

Chapter 1

Aria POV

The ink on the divorce decree was three years old, but the paper sliced my thumb like a fresh blade as I held it.

I sat in the wingback leather chair across from Mr. Rossi, the family lawyer who had known me since I was a child in braids. He was sweating. A bead of perspiration rolled down his graying temple, betraying the terrified silence that suffocated the room.

I had come here simply to renew my security clearance for international travel-a routine procedure for the wife of a Capo. Instead, I was staring at my own erasure.

"This is a mistake," I said, my voice sounding hollow, as if coming from a great distance. "We are Catholic. We are Cosa Nostra. We do not divorce."

Mr. Rossi wiped his forehead with a trembling handkerchief. He couldn't meet my eyes.

"It was filed quietly, Donna Aria. Sealed by the highest judges in Chicago. The Don insisted on absolute secrecy."

I looked at the date again. Three years ago. The day after our fifth anniversary. The day after I had woken up alone in our bed, told by the maids that Dante had urgent business.

"And this?" I pointed to the second document.

A marriage certificate. Dated twenty-four hours after the divorce.

Dante Vitiello. Gia Russo.

My husband was not my husband. For three years, I had been living a lie, playing the role of the dutiful wife, hosting his dinners, warming his bed, all while he was legally bound to the woman he called the nanny.

Mr. Rossi slid a third document across the mahogany desk, his movements hesitant.

"He has also formally recognized the boy, Leo, as his blood heir. The Vitiello line continues through