My Husband's Secret Mafia Bride

I killed the Aston Martin’s engine in the exact spot I had left it hours ago.

The garage floor felt like ice through my thin socks. I dragged the heavy utility hose across the concrete and blasted the coastal sand from the soles of my shoes. Upstairs, I plugged in the iron. The steam hissed violently as I pressed the wrinkles out of my trench coat. I hung it back in the closet, exactly two inches from Julian’s wool overcoat.

I eased under the duvet. I turned my back to his empty side of the mattress and forced my chest to rise and fall in a slow, steady rhythm.

The front door clicked open at exactly six o'clock.

Footsteps padded up the stairs. Outside the master bedroom, the floorboards groaned. He stopped.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five seconds.

The brass knob turned. The mattress dipped. Julian slid in behind me. His heavy arm draped over my waist, pulling my back against his chest. I kept my eyes closed. I didn't move a single muscle.

Sunlight cut across the kitchen island two hours later. I flipped a pair of eggs in the cast-iron skillet. The coffee machine hissed.

"Morning," Julian grumbled, stepping into the kitchen. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"You look exhausted," I said, sliding the eggs onto a plate. "How was the crisis?"

He dropped into a leather barstool. "A nightmare. My flight got delayed on the tarmac for two hours, and then—"

He stopped. His jaw clamped shut.

I set the plate in front of him. "Your flight?"

He picked up his fork, his eyes fixed on the eggs. "The shipping manifest. The harbor master held up the cargo flight. Total logistical mess."

"Right. The docks."

"Yeah. The docks."

I turned back to the counter. I grabbed a glass and filled it with orange juice. For three years, I had opened the small glass vial hidden behind the baking soda and tapped a precise measure of white powder into his morning juice. A fertility supplement. Or so the private clinic had told me.

Today, I left the vial untouched.

I stirred the plain juice with a silver spoon, mimicking the exact motion I used every single day. I handed him the glass.

"Drink up," I said.

He downed half of it in one gulp. "Thanks, babe."

I walked into the master bathroom and locked the door. I bypassed my contacts and dialed a secure numeric code.

Enzo picked up on the first ring. "Signora."

No greeting. No questions about the three words I sent at three in the morning.

"I need three things, Enzo," I said, keeping my voice low.

"Tell me."

"First. The complete ledgers for Julian’s operations. The nightclubs, the underground sports books, the washing channels. Every cent he’s moved in the last two years."

Keyboard keys clacked over the speaker. "Done. Second?"

"His woman. I want her full background. Bank statements, property deeds, medical records."

"I'll have the file in an hour."

"Third. The Salvatore diamond crown. Track the GPS signature and pull a list of every person who has touched it since one-thirty this morning."

A brief pause stretched over the line. "The crown is in play?"

"Yes."

"Does the Don know?" Enzo asked.

"Not before tonight."

"Understood."

I ended the call. I unlocked the door and stepped back out.

Julian stood by the island, watching the morning news on the wall-mounted screen. He wore a fresh silver tie and a crisp white shirt.

"Come here," he said.

He patted his thighs. I walked over. I sat sideways on his lap.

His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me against his chest. He smelled like peppermint toothpaste and hotel soap. I let him hold me. I counted the seconds in my head. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. His heart beat steadily against my spine. A liar's rhythm.

"Let's get out of the city," he murmured into my neck. "I’ll take you to the Hamptons this weekend. Just the two of us."

"Sure," I said. "That sounds perfect."

I rested my hand against his chest. My fingers brushed his shirt pocket. I felt the hard plastic edge of his key fob. I pinched the metal ring between my fingers and slipped his car keys into my palm.

I stood up. "I need to grab a package from the mailbox."

"Make it quick," he smiled. "I have to leave for the office in ten."

I pulled my trench coat from the hall closet and slipped it on. The morning air bit at my cheeks as I walked down the front path. I opened the black metal mailbox.

No package. Just a single envelope.

Thick cream paper. Heavy gold foil stamping. No return address.

I tore the flap open. A stiff card slid into my hand.

*Welcome Baby Sofia · Sunday Brunch · The Greco-Vega Residence*

I stared at the name. Sofia. Last night, the balloons had spelled out Caterina. A decoy for the guests? A twisted game to confuse the family?

I flipped the thick card over. A single line of cursive crossed the back in metallic gold ink.

*The bride is welcome too.*

My thumb traced the sharp edge of the cardstock. I folded the invitation in half. I folded it again. I shoved the thick square deep into the inner pocket of my trench coat.

I turned around and looked back at the house.

Through the large bay window, Julian stood in the kitchen. He held his phone to his ear. A wide, relaxed grin stretched across his face.

Even through the thick glass, the pitch of the caller's voice carried over the quiet estate grounds.

A woman's voice. Laughing.