The Don's Counterfeit Heart

Five years ago, he sealed our marriage with a tattoo.

My family’s falcon, inked over his pulse.

A promise. An end to the war.

Yesterday, he carved it out with a blade.

His old flame is back.

He flaunted her at our family celebration, then brought her into our home.

He thinks I'll swallow my pride for our sons. For the alliance.

He's wrong.

I have three tickets to Italy waiting.

One for me, and two for our heirs.

He ended our alliance in ink and blood.

I'll end him with fire and ash.

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1

For the third time, Marco came home reeking of whiskey and blood.

When his Underboss delivered him to me, he leaned in and whispered, “The Don is haunted by an old ghost, Donna Milania. He needs you.”

“Every man has his ghosts, Donna. He is fighting a war in his own head.”

Sprawled on the sofa, Marco’s eyes were bloodshot as he slurred, “What ghost? I forgot her years ago. I have a wife, I have sons… How could I still be hung up on her? Just get out. I’m not done drinking.”

As he spoke, tears slid down his cheeks.

The Underboss looked deeply uncomfortable, forcing an awkward laugh.

After seeing him out, I turned back to find the room in shambles.

I silently cleaned up the mess and hauled him into the bedroom. I didn't bother making him coffee or trying to sober him up.

When I returned to our room, Marco was sound asleep.

He must have been dreaming. His hand shot out, clutching at the empty air as he rasped, “Isabella… I erased it. All my loyalty is for you. Please… don’t go…”

On his wrist, the tattoo of my family's falcon crest was a mangled, bloody ruin.

I peered closer and saw he had scraped it with a blade until it was unrecognizable.

In that moment, the last thread of duty I felt for our alliance snapped.

I remembered the first time he’d gotten this drunk, just two weeks ago.

His Underboss had dismissed it as him tying one on after a firefight and asked me to be patient.

That night, he said nothing, but he woke in the dark, his tears soaking a corner of the pillow.

The second time, he clung to me, weeping, repeating it all night: “You are my only loyalty. Nothing can ever shake that. I love you. I will only ever love you.”

But by the third time, the crest on his wrist was gone.

That was the tattoo he had hired the best artist in the city for, to prove his loyalty.

As the needle bit into the flesh over his pulse, Marco hadn't even flinched.

He had simply smiled at me when it was done.

“From now on,” he’d said, “the only mark on me will be a Falcone.”

But now, that mark had become a stain he would mutilate himself to remove.

I activated the hidden surveillance system in the study, then closed the door, leaving him to his rage like a caged beast.