When the Don Buried His Wife

All of Italy knew Kayson Moretti was obsessed with me.

He was the untouchable Don of the Moretti family, a man who never lost control in public, yet he broke every rule for me. He declared his love at a gathering of the most powerful mafia families in the country, then bought an entire private island just to build me a glass-domed garden when he proposed.

For years, he laid the world at my feet—power, jewels, territory, status. If I wanted something, Kayson didn’t promise it. He made it mine.

That was why everyone believed I was the luckiest woman in Italy.

They were wrong.

Because the same man who swore he would die for me was sleeping with his private secretary behind my back. Worse, he got her pregnant.

The day she sent me her ultrasound, their bed photos, and every intimate secret she thought would destroy me, I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg. I didn’t confront him.

Instead, I erased every trace I had ever left in his world.

My name. My accounts. My records. My past.

I staged my death.

I let the world believe I had died in a private jet crash.

My phone vibrated.

That anonymous number had sent me another photo.

I tapped the screen. The woman in it was Sofia Romano.

She was wearing a clinging deep wine satin gown, the straps so thin they barely seemed to exist. Faint marks still stained the side of her neck and along her collarbone. She was half-reclined against a black leather sofa, and in the lower right corner of the frame, a man’s hand rested possessively on her knee.

I recognized that hand instantly.

The wedding band on his ring finger caught the light with a cold, merciless gleam. Kayson had designed those rings himself, then had them custom-made by a Swiss jeweler. I still remembered the way he had held my hand and told me there would never be another pair like them in the world, because anything he gave me was meant to be mine alone.

Now the memory felt like a joke.

He was wearing the ring that was supposed to mean forever, supposed to mean only me, while touching another woman.

For one awful moment, I found myself wondering what had been on his mind. Excitement. Desire. The thrill of getting away with it. Or maybe, somewhere beneath it all, the smallest flicker of guilt.

Before I could stop staring at the photo, the front doors of the estate opened.

Kayson was home.

He did not even bother taking off his coat before crossing the room straight toward me. There was still the look of someone who had rushed back in his face, but his voice, when he spoke, was as warm and low as ever.

“I’m sorry, tesoro. The capos kept dragging things out. The meeting ran late. I almost missed our anniversary.”

Had family business kept him, or had another woman?

“What’s wrong?” His eyes landed on my face,