He Faked Death, I Married The Don

I was arranging white lilies on the cold marble of my husband's grave when I saw a ghost.

Walking through the cemetery gates was a man who looked exactly like my dead husband, Dante.

Logic said it was his twin brother, Matteo. But a wife knows the slope of a man's shoulders. She knows the arrogant tilt of his chin.

My husband hadn't been blown up in a car bomb three years ago.

He had faked his death to steal his brother's rank, his fortune, and his mistress.

For three years, I had forced our son, Leo, to kiss a photograph goodnight. We lived in a damp, peeling apartment, surviving on the "charity" of the Family.

Meanwhile, Dante was living in a mansion, driving cars that cost more than my life, playing house with another woman.

When he came to our cramped apartment to drop off the monthly "pension" money, pretending to be Uncle Matteo, he didn't look at me with love. He looked at his watch.

When Leo ran to hug him, shouting "Papa," Dante peeled the boy's small arms off his expensive suit like he was removing a piece of lint.

"Don't call me that," he snapped. "I am your Uncle."

My grief turned into ice. He chose another woman's comfort over his own son's hunger.

I grabbed Leo's hand and walked out the door.

"You walk away, and you get nothing!" Dante shouted after me. "You'll be on the street!"

I didn't stop. I walked straight to the black SUV idling at the curb.

The window rolled down, revealing Salvatore Vitiello. The Don. The most lethal man in the city.

"Get in, Elena," he commanded.

I opened the door and slid onto the leather seat next to the devil himself.

As we drove away, leaving my husband in the dust, I realized I had just traded a liar for a killer.

And I didn't regret it for a second.

Chapter 1

Elena POV

I was standing over the grave of the man I loved, carefully arranging white lilies on the cold marble, when I saw the ghost of my dead husband walking through the cemetery gates with his arm around another woman.

The logic in my brain fractured before my heart did.

My husband, Dante, had been blown to pieces in a car bomb three years ago. The man striding toward the exit was supposed to be his twin brother, Matteo.

Or at least, that was the lie designed to break me.

But a wife knows the slope of a man's shoulders. She knows the way he favors his left leg when it rains. She knows the specific, arrogant tilt of his chin when he thinks he owns the world.

I watched them get into a car that cost more than the apartment the Family allowed me to live in.

My grief, which had been my constant companion, my shadow, my very skin for three years, suddenly felt like a costume I had been forced to wear in a play I didn't know I was auditioning for.

Three years of wearing black. Three years of teaching our son, Leo, to kiss a photograph goodnight. Three years of silence, of Omerta, of being the perfect, tragic Widow in Black for the Outfit.

I looked down at the grave. It was empty.

My life was a lie.

I turned away from the headstone, leaving the lilies to rot.

I trudged back to the small, cramped apartment in the shadow of the Vitiello territory. The walls were thin, peeling with layers of cheap paint that smelled like damp plaster and despair. This was the charity the Family gave to the widows of Soldiers.

Leo was sitting on the floor, pushing a toy car with a missing wheel across the linoleum. He looked up, his eyes so dark, so much like Dante's that it sometimes hurt to look at him.

"Mama, is Uncle Matteo coming today?" he asked.

The name tasted like ash in my mouth. Uncle Matteo.

"Yes, Leo," I said, my voice hollow. "He is coming to bring the envelope."

Every month, on the anniversary of the death, "Matteo" came. He brought cash. Blood money. Pension money. He claimed it was from the Family, for the widow of his brave brother.

A knock rattled the door.

I opened it.

Dante stood there. He was wearing a suit that fit him perfectly, his hair slicked back, a gold watch glinting on his wrist. He looked well-fed. He looked vibrant.

He held out a thick envelope.

"For you, Elena. For the boy."

He used the voice he used for everyone else now. A little deeper. A little rougher. The voice of Matteo, the Capo who had died of an overdose three years ago-a death they had hushed up to let Dante take his place.

I took the envelope. My fingers brushed his. His skin was warm.

Dead men are cold.

Leo ran over, hugging Dante's leg.

"Papa!" Leo shouted, forgetting the rules.

Dante stiffened. He peeled Leo's small arms off his expensive trousers like he was removing a piece of lint.

"Don't call me that, Leo," he said, his tone sharp. "I am your Uncle. Your Papa is a hero. He is in heaven."

Leo shrank back, confused, hurt.

I watched Dante's face. There was no pain there. Only annoyance. He wasn't looking at his son. He was looking at his watch.

"Gina is waiting in the car," he said, smoothing his jacket. "We have a dinner reservation."

Gina. Matteo's widow. The woman he was protecting. The woman he was living with.

He turned to leave.

"Dante," I said.

He stopped, his back to me. For a second, his posture slumped.

"What?" he asked, not turning around.

"You forgot to ask how I am."

He didn't turn. He just opened the door.

"Buy yourself something nice, Elena. You look tired."

He walked out, closing the door on the tomb he had built for me.

I walked to the window and watched him get into the car where she was waiting.

Down the street, a black SUV sat idling. It had been there for weeks. Tinted windows. Heavy. Dangerous.

I knew who was inside.

Salvatore Vitiello. The Don.

The most lethal man in the city. The man who controlled the air we breathed. He was watching. He was always watching.

People whispered that the Don was a monster, a man who had no heart. But as I watched my husband drive away with another woman, I realized the real monsters aren't the ones who kill you.

They are the ones who let you live, just so they can watch you bleed.