After My Divorce, I Became the Mafia Don’s Wife

At eight the next morning, Enzo opened the study door for me.

Dante sat behind a long table in a black suit, the two documents from last night waiting in front of him.

I stopped at the edge of the table. “I thought I was here to take care of the children.”

“You passed last night’s interview.” Dante pushed the papers toward me. “Now I need to give them someone who can stay.”

He spoke with the calm of a man discussing terms, not feelings.

“The Bellandi family has enemies watching my children. A regular nanny can’t enter the security system, sign medical authorizations, or represent them at school and family events. Livia has seen too many people leave. She needs a mother written into the law.”

I sat down.

“You want me to marry you.”

“On paper.”

“Where would I live?”

“Second floor. The room you used last night. Mine is on the third.”

“How far do my duties go?”

“Care for the three children. Help them adjust to a normal life. Attend family events as Mrs. Bellandi when necessary.”

“And marital obligations?”

Dante turned the contract to one page and tapped a line with his finger.

“There is no such clause.”

I read it twice before asking, “What about money?”

“A personal operating account will be opened under your name. Household expenses come from the family account. Anything transferred to your private account stays yours.”

“Even if we divorce?”

“Even then.”

I looked at the contract. “I’ve signed an agreement before. In the end, I walked away with twenty-six dollars.”

Dante turned to the lawyer. “Add a clause. All funds transferred to Evelyn Ward’s personal account during the marriage remain her separate property. The Bellandi family may not reclaim them after divorce, separation, or termination of this agreement.”

The lawyer began revising at once.

Dante looked back at me. “Caring for children is labor. The Bellandi family does not take labor for free.”

“The Crane family never called it labor.”

“Then they were poorer than they looked.”

For a moment, I thought of the Crane house, where cooking, cleaning, laundry, and childcare had all become my duty once the nanny was dismissed. On the day of the divorce, they said I had lived off them for three years.

I pressed my fingers around the pen.

“One more thing. If the children don’t need me someday, can I leave?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t stop me?”

“I’ll compensate you according to the agreement and make sure you’re protected.”

He did not rush me.

The contract was dangerous, but its terms were clear. It gave me conditions, boundaries, and a way out.

At last, I signed.

Dante signed beside my name.

After the lawyer collected the papers, Dante opened a black velvet box. Inside lay an obsidian-and-gold brooch with the Bellandi crest at its center.

“Wear it,” he said. “The household will know to listen to you.”

I picked it up. “What happens if I lose it?”

Dante glanced at Enzo.

Enzo’s brows tightened at once.

“Enzo won’t sleep,” Dante said.

I almost laughed.

He pinned the brooch to my coat himself, his fingers brushing the fabric only briefly before he stepped back.

A small sound came from outside the door.

Dante lifted his eyes. “Come in.”

The door opened a crack. Livia peeked in with Pearl in her arms, while Matteo and Nico crowded behind her.

Livia stared at the crest on my chest. “Are you going to live here?”

“The agreement says I will stay.”

She did not understand the agreement, but she understood stay. She came in and stood beside me.

Matteo looked at Dante. “Can she enter the children’s wing?”

“Yes.”

Nico asked, “Can she tell the kitchen not to make the milk too hot?”

“Yes.”

Livia held Pearl tighter. “Can she be in charge of bedtime stories?”

Dante looked at me.

“That depends on how long the story is,” I said.

“Short,” Nico said at once.

Matteo glanced at him. “Yesterday’s book had twenty-six pages.”

That night, I moved into the room beside the children’s wing.

After my shower, while I was still drying my hair, a white rabbit toy appeared through the crack of my door.

Then came Livia’s small face.

“Does the agreement mention bedtime stories?”

“No.”

Her eyes dropped.

At the end of the corridor, Matteo held the broken music box, and Nico carried a thick storybook. Both boys pretended they had only been passing by.

I opened the door wider.

“But we can add a verbal clause.”