He Never Knew His Wife

I married Dante Falcone, the Don of Chicago's Falcone crime family.

Three years into our arranged marriage, and he still didn't know what I looked like.

He could remember every one of his men, every single enemy, but he could never remember me.

If I changed my hairstyle, he would press the muzzle of his gun against my temple and demand to know who sent me.

If I wore a new dress, he would mistake me for a new maid in the manor.

Once, during a firefight with a rival family, we were trapped together in a collapsed basement.

I groped my way through the darkness to his side and told him my name was Isabella.

But he shoved me away. "Shut up. My wife isn't even here."

In the end, it took his men three whole days of digging to rescue me.

That night, at a family meeting, Dante raised his glass. "Thank God, we didn't lose anyone."

He had completely forgotten about me, still laid up in a hospital bed.

From then on, I wore only pure white dresses, kept the exact same hairstyle, and used the same perfume.

All in the desperate hope that he might finally recognize me.

But every time, his gaze would slide right past me as if I were a stranger.

Until I flew to New York City to attend a charity gala he was at.

I watched as he cut through the dense crowd and, with unerring precision, swept a woman in a red dress into a deep kiss.

In that instant, I finally understood.

It wasn't that he couldn't remember a woman's face. He just didn't love me.

Fine. If that’s how it is, then from now on, we are nothing more than strangers to each other.

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1

I had just turned to leave when several uniformed Sicilian police officers swarmed me.

They roughly shoved me to the ground.

My face was pressed hard against the cold stone pavement.

Panic seized me, and my eyes instinctively shot toward Dante, who stood not far away.

"Dante! Save me! They have the wrong person!"

I screamed with everything I had.

He heard me. His gaze sliced through the crowd and landed on my face.

Then, as if looking at a piece of furniture, he calmly shifted his gaze away.

"I don't know her."

Those were the cruelest words I had ever heard.

Fifteen whole days.

I endured three hundred and sixty hours in a sunless interrogation room and a frigid jail cell.

I wasn't released until the family’s lawyer—our Consigliere, Leo—intervened with a document proving my innocence.

I dragged my exhausted body out of the police station. It wasn't Dante who greeted me, but Leo.

Leo pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses. "Mrs. Falcone, what in God's name were you thinking?"

His tone was glacial. "Do you have any idea how much damage you've caused the family's reputation in Italy?"

The last bit of warmth in my heart was utterly extinguished by the cold Sicilian wind.

When I returned to Chicago and stepped into the manor, I was immediately enveloped by countless scrutinizing stares.

My imprisonment had become the family's juiciest scandal.

Dante didn't ask a single question about my well-being. The first words out of his mouth were a reprimand.

"How many times have I told you? You wear white when you go out."

He scowled, his voice laced with the kind of impatience reserved for a disobedient pet. "You know I have face blindness. You know I can't tell women's faces apart."

"Why can't you just listen?"

I clenched my fists, my nails digging deep into my palms.

He turned a page in his file and, without looking up, issued a second command. "Leo has drafted a statement. You'll hold a press conference tomorrow."

"You will clarify things. And you will publicly apologize for this scandal."

Apologize?

What the hell did I have to apologize for? For Dante Falcone's cold-blooded heartlessness? Or for his so-called "face blindness"?

I stared at his indifferent profile. Instead of answering, I asked quietly, "Who was that woman you kissed at the gala?"

His hand stilled on the file, a rare flicker of panic crossing his features.

After a few seconds of silence, he finally spoke. "There were too many people. I thought it was you."

A bitter, humorless laugh almost escaped me.

That woman wore a flame-red dress, her hair in large, wavy curls I had never worn.

And in my closet, there was nothing but white.

"Dante, I called your name so loudly that day."

Bitterness churned in my stomach, but I had to ask.

"So?" Dante lifted his eyes. "You want me to apologize to you? For my condition?"

"Isabella, you knew I had this problem long before we married."

"This was your choice."

A wave of exhaustion washed over me as I looked at his cold, unconcerned expression.

He was right. This was my own doing.

"Fine, I'll go to the press conference."

Hearing my ready agreement, Dante fell silent, his gaze fixed on the tablet I carried.

The corner of a screenshot from casino surveillance peeked out from the screen.

I followed his gaze and realized the open page showed a blurry picture of dozens of people from behind.

And in the most inconspicuous corner sat a woman in a black dress.

It was Camila, the woman Dante had kissed.

The photo was so blurry you could barely make out their silhouettes.

But Dante, with a single glance, had spotted her.

So, it wasn't that he couldn't recognize people.

He just couldn't recognize the one he didn't love.

An invisible vise clamped around my heart, making each breath a stabbing pain.

But I managed a brittle smile, took the tablet, and slid it across the desk toward him.

"Here, you can have it. I don't want it anymore."

The title of Mrs. Falcone.

The three years of being ignored.

I didn't want any of it.