After I Died, the Mafia King Went Mad

After everything was arranged, I went home.

The moment I stepped through the front door and handed my coat to one of the maids, I heard Luca’s voice drift from the dining room.

“Elena, where have you been?”

He came toward me fast, his brow drawn tight, the worry in his face completely unhidden.

“I called you several times. You never answered. I was close to sending men out to look for you.”

As he spoke, he took my bag from my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“The kitchen just got in a fresh shipment of salmon from that supplier you love in Sicily. I had the chef prepare it two ways for you—carpaccio and seared in cream sauce. Another twenty minutes and it would’ve been ruined.”

He said it so easily, so familiarly, as if there had never been a fracture between us. As if the scene I had witnessed at the hospital only hours ago—him with Sofia and their little boy—had been some grotesque hallucination instead of the truth.

I looked at him and felt cold all the way through.

Only a few hours earlier, he had been sitting in a pediatric clinic with another woman and their child, calmly telling a doctor I would never find out.

And now here he was, standing in our house like the perfect husband, worried that I’d missed dinner.

I parted my lips to answer, but the smell of fish drifting out from the dining room hit me too hard.

My stomach lurched.

I turned away and pressed a hand to my mouth, gagging.

Luca’s expression changed instantly.

“What’s wrong?” He was at my side in a second. “Is your stomach acting up again?”

“It’s nothing,” I said quietly. “I had an iced coffee earlier. I think it just hit me badly.”

Without hesitation, he turned to the butler.

“Get rid of the salmon. Have the kitchen make her warm pumpkin soup instead. Something light.”

I watched him move the entire household with a single sentence just because I said I didn’t feel well, and something in my chest twisted painfully.

If I hadn’t seen what I saw today, I might have believed he truly loved me the way he always claimed he did.

“Sit down for a while,” he said, guiding me gently toward the sitting room. “Eat something warm, then go upstairs and rest. Tomorrow is our first wedding anniversary. I wanted to have you try on your dress tonight, but I guess that’ll have to wait until morning.”

Just then, the doorbell rang.

A moment later, a woman’s voice floated in from the foyer.

“Sorry to come by so late.”

Then Sofia Romano walked in with the child in her arms.

She wore a simple ivory dress, understated and elegant, her dark hair falling loose over her shoulders. The little boy—about a year old—rested against her chest, wide dark eyes taking in everything around him. In her hand, she carried a deep blue gift box.

Luca’s face darkened at once.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice was ice now, nothing like the warmth he had used with me only moments before.

Sofia held herself stiffly, all business.

“The gift you ordered through our auction house.”

She handed the box to the butler without lowering her eyes.

Luca stared at her, his expression turning lethal.

“I told you to leave this city.”

Her chin lifted. “I did. I’m only back on business. I leave again tomorrow.”

Then she looked at me, and there was something sharp, almost amused, in her expression.

“Why exactly did you want me gone so badly? Unless Donna is afraid—”

“Enough.”

The look he gave her was pure warning.

And then,the little boy in her arms stretched both hands toward Luca and let out a sleepy, garbled plea.

“Up.”

Luca went still for the briefest second. I caught the flicker in his eyes before he buried it.

“Take your child and leave,” he said coldly. “And if you ever show up in front of my wife again, I won’t be merciful.”

Sofia’s jaw tightened. She looked as if she wanted to say more, but in the end she only turned toward the door. Before stepping out, she glanced back at me once.

It was triumph in her eyes.

When she was gone, silence settled over the house.

Luca stood there for two seconds, then turned back to me, his whole expression already softened again.

“Elena, don’t let someone that insignificant ruin your evening.”

He crossed the room and stopped in front of me, his voice low and gentle.

“Everything for tomorrow is already set. The yacht, the dinner, the fireworks, even that band you love. I’m spending the whole day with you. Nothing’s going to get in the way.”

I looked at him without answering.

If I hadn’t heard the truth at the hospital, if I hadn’t just seen that child reach for him with the instinct of someone used to being held by him, maybe I would have believed him.

Maybe I would have let myself fall for this version of Luca Moretti again.

But now all I felt was the sick, hollow weight of how ridiculous it all was.

I didn’t confront him.

I didn’t tear the lie apart.

I just lowered my eyes and said softly, “Okay.”