His Unwanted Widow, The Underboss's Coveted Queen

I knew the charred corpse in the city morgue wasn't my husband, Lorenzo.

I knew this because the man standing three feet behind me, playing the role of the grieving twin brother, was actually my husband.

He had planted his ring on his murdered twin, swapping their identities so he could escape our marriage and run off with his pregnant mistress, Valentina.

In my previous life, I had refused the pen and screamed for an investigation.

Lorenzo twisted my hysteria, painting me as an unhinged liar trying to steal his territory. The Family stripped my widow's benefits and cast me and my two young children onto the unforgiving streets.

My life seeped out of me in a freezing alleyway, listening to Lorenzo and Valentina laughing in the shadows as my children starved.

I died not understanding how a man could sacrifice his own brother and children just to hoard his wealth.

Blinking away the foul memory, a sharp breath filled my lungs.

I was reborn, right back in the Syndicate safehouse.

This time, I didn't shed a single tear or beg for the truth.

I picked up the pen and legally declared Lorenzo dead.

I was going to inherit his entire empire, and then I was going to burn him to the ground.

Chapter 1

Siena POV

Consigliere Romano slid a pen, its gold casing so heavy it seemed to possess its own gravity, across the table and told me to sign my husband's death decree.

"Sign it, Siena," he warned, his voice a low rasp of gravel, "or the Syndicate will strip your children of their protection and leave you to the wolves before midnight."

I stared at the thick parchment, my pulse a quiet, metronomic beat against my ribs.

I knew the charred corpse in the city morgue wasn't Lorenzo.

I knew this because the man standing three feet behind me, a specter in his grieving twin brother's ill-fitting suit, was actually my husband—waiting for me to sign away my life.

The air in the Syndicate safehouse was a stagnant miasma of lilies, their funereal scent cloying and cheap, and the lingering ghost of cigar smoke.

A lifetime ago, in this exact room, I had refused the pen with a vehemence that shook my own bones.

I remembered the morgue. I remembered the jagged mole on the right foot of the charred corpse—a mark Lorenzo had never borne. His twin, Leonardo, had.

I had screamed for an investigation. And the man behind me—my husband—had twisted my hysteria into proof of madness.

He had painted me as a liar, a thief attempting to seize Lorenzo's territory for my own blood relatives.

The Family had rescinded my widow's stipend and cast me and my two young children onto the unforgiving streets.

My life had seeped out of me in a freezing alleyway, a quiet, brutal mugging orchestrated by the very men who had sworn to protect me.

And as the world dimmed, I had heard them—Lorenzo and his mistress, Valentina—laughing in the shadows.

I blinked, the memory receding like a foul tide.

I was back in the safehouse. Reborn. With every betrayal still burning behind my eyes.

I bit down on my back teeth until a faint ringing started in my ears, forcing the corners of my mouth down half an inch.

I picked up the gold pen.

I did not hesitate, nor did I allow a single tear to fall.

I signed my name on the dotted line, legally declaring Lorenzo dead.

Valentina stood near the door, dabbing at her dry eyes with a lace handkerchief.

"You have to stay strong for the children, Siena," she whispered, her voice a vile treacle of pity.

My gaze slid past her shoulder, fixing on a crack in the wall plaster. I didn't trust myself to look at her face without revealing the hatred coiled in my chest.

The man pretending to be Leonardo stepped forward. A hand settled on the back of my chair, the weight of it a familiar poison.

It was Lorenzo. My husband. My betrayer.

The phantom pain of his grip in my hair was a sudden, hot brand against my scalp. In my past life, those same fingers had twisted into my hair while he called me unhinged.

I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat and turned to Consigliere Romano.

"Is it verified?" I asked, my voice flat. "Is that my husband's body?"

Romano nodded slowly. "Lorenzo died a Made Man, Siena."

He unlatched a leather briefcase and produced a heavy ledger. "As his lawful widow, you are entitled to the Syndicate severance."

Romano wrote out a check and pushed it across the polished surface of the table.

One hundred and seventy-two thousand, eight hundred dollars.

"You also hold the exclusive right to inherit Lorenzo's legitimate business fronts and his southern smuggling routes," Romano added.

I forced my shoulders to quiver. I lowered my head and let out a delicate, practiced sob.

"How am I supposed to do this?" I whispered, pressing my palms to my eyes. "How does a woman alone in the Family raise a son and a daughter?"

Romano's stern expression softened. He was a man of the old ways.

"The Syndicate will provide a monthly stipend of one thousand five hundred dollars for the children until they turn eighteen," Romano said. "I will also secure you an administrative role in one of our legitimate fronts."

"Thank you, Consigliere," I murmured, wiping a nonexistent tear from my cheek.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lorenzo and Valentina stiffen.

The pretense of mourning fell away from their faces, revealing a raw, twitching greed. That money, and those routes, were supposed to be theirs.

Lorenzo had counted on my hysteria. On my refusal. Leaving the territory ripe for "Leonardo" to claim.

Romano snapped his briefcase shut with a sharp click and walked out, leaving me alone with the vultures.

The moment the bolt of the door slid home, Lorenzo took a step toward me.

"Siena, we need to talk about the routes," he started, his voice pitched to mimic his slower, less ambitious brother.

I stood up, the legs of my chair screeching against the floorboards.

"Get out of my sight," I said, each word a shard of ice.

Lorenzo's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"I cannot bear to look at a face identical to my dead husband's," I told him, my voice sinking to a lethal whisper. "Leave. Now."

He clenched his jaw, but he had no choice. He had to play the grieving, supportive brother.

He turned on his heel and left, Valentina trailing behind him.

The heavy metal door clicked shut, locking them out.

I walked to the corner of the room, where my five-year-old daughter, Mia, and my four-year-old son, Leo, sat quietly on a leather sofa.

I pulled their small bodies into my arms and buried my face in their hair.

"The audience is gone," I whispered against Mia's forehead.

I held them tighter, making a vow to the cold concrete walls.

"I am going to give you a life of luxury," I breathed. "And I will burn this entire Syndicate to the ground to do it."

Behind my closed eyes, I saw the alleyway again. I heard the laughter.

This time, I would be the one laughing at the end.