A Saint's Desecrated Medallion

Five years into my marriage, my world shattered. My husband, Julian Valachi—the formidable Don of the New York Valachi crime family—brought home a pair of mysterious twins, declaring he would pass the entire family enterprise on to them. The promise we had made to protect our world, a world meant only for us, now felt like a bitter joke.

I naively thought he had simply had a change of heart, so I eagerly went to the family's private clinic. I was ready to remove the "special implant" that was supposedly there for my health, so I could finally give him a blood heir.

However, the news from the specialist they’d flown in was a physical blow.

"Some women are born without a uterus," the specialist said, his gaze steady and impassive. "That is not the case with you, Mrs. Valachi. Yours was surgically removed."

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1

My mind went blank. In the five years of our marriage, I’d only had one surgery under general anesthesia—a supposed “cyst removal,” and Julian had been by my side the entire time.

Removing a tiny cyst hardly required general anesthesia, but Julian, worried I might feel a twinge of pain, had used his authority as the Don to insist the clinic use the strongest anesthetic possible. Could my uterus have been secretly removed during that procedure?

It couldn't be. Julian had been waiting right outside the operating room. The family's private clinic would never dare pull something like that behind his back.

As I was reeling, sharp, angry voices drifted from the private chapel on the estate—it was Julian's sister, Isla Valachi.

"Julian, this is too much! Bringing those children home was one thing, but now you’re bringing Silvana Rinaldi here, too? Are you trying to humiliate Alessia in her own home?"

"Watch your mouth, Isla," Julian responded coldly, his face a grim mask. "Betrayal? It’s not what you think. Her father took a bullet for me. This is about repaying a debt."

"Oh, please," Isla scoffed. "Repaying a debt by having twins with her? Spare me the hypocrisy, Julian. What about the vows you made to Alessia?"

"I didn't want the children either," Julian snapped. "But her father died for me. His only wish was for Silvana to be taken care of. I owe him my life. Giving her security and children was the least I could do to honor that. I had no choice."

"No choice?" Isla's voice rose to a shriek. "So you married her? In secret, in Sicily? And you lied to Alessia, told her she had some fatal genetic disease just so you could have her uterus removed during a cyst surgery?"

The words struck me like lightning. My vision tunneled to black, and I staggered, my legs threatening to give out.

So the one who ordered my uterus removed… was my own husband?

"Alessia is too pure," Julian continued, his voice laced with a bizarre pride. "Childbirth is a brutal, bloody affair. I couldn’t let her be tainted by it. Besides, a check-up revealed a fatal genetic risk linked to childbirth. Her life would have been in danger. Isn't this for the best? Silvana has delivered the heirs, the Valachi family is secure, and Alessia is spared the pain and risk."

"As for Silvana, she has a terminal illness; her days are numbered. She gave me Dario and Chiara. I can't just let her die alone out there. I'm bringing her home to spend her final days here."

Julian was actually pleased with himself.

"What I've done might seem extreme," he said, "but in the end, it’s the best outcome for everyone. Just keep this to yourself, Isla. She only has a week left. After that, this will all be over."

I don't know how I made it back to the house. A bone-deep chill enveloped me, and the once-warm rooms now felt like an icebox. Every corner held a memory of Julian and me. I had always believed he was the man who loved me more than anyone in the world.

We had kissed under the Tuscan moonlight; we had gazed out at the world from an Alpine peak; we had found stolen moments of peace on a deserted private island, far from the family's brutal business.

Julian was the feared Don of a crime family, a man who shouldn't have had time for such things, but because I adored them, he made every single one happen.

"Dying under an enemy's gun for you would be a price worth paying," he had once said, holding me tight, his voice hoarse with emotion. "As long as you're by my side, I'll have no regrets. You are the only woman I will ever love."

Those vows, once so achingly sincere, now felt rotten to the core.

My composure shattered. I couldn't stay in this house filled with lies and tainted memories a moment longer. I lit the fireplace and, one by one, threw every memento of our life together into the flames.

As the fire roared, the front door suddenly opened. Julian was back, and with him was Silvana—pale, fragile, and dressed in a hospital gown.

"Alessia, this is Silvana," Julian said smoothly, his eyes not even flicking to the inferno in the hearth. His smile was gentle, the lies rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. "You may have heard of her. She's the daughter of a dear departed friend and has no one. She has terminal cancer, not much time. I couldn't leave her to die alone in a hospital, so I brought her here."

"Don't worry," he added quickly. "I've already hired a private nurse. You won't have to lift a finger. You can even pretend she isn't here."

His tone left no room for argument; the decision was made.

"Fine," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

I tossed a precious antique book of poetry—the first gift Julian had ever given me—into the fire. The pages curled, blackened, and turned to ash, just like my marriage.