The Don’s Wife Was Never Running

An hour later, the old Don and Donna left, carrying the babies with them to show off to the family capos. And Vincent took care of some family business.

The house fell quiet, just the two of us.

Sofia saw me out on the balcony. She made her way over slowly.

"Mrs. Capelli, I know you hate me. And I don’t blame you. But I love Vincent. And I love my boys. I would never do anything to hurt you or the family."

I stared at her, cold and steady. "You already did."

She flinched, like I’d slapped her.

"I know you don’t believe me," she said, her voice trembling. "But I just want us to get along. For the boys."

I turned and walked out of the mansion. There's no point wasting breath on a whore who doesn't know her place.

The Long Island safe house was cold and empty. I’d only stayed here a handful of times, usually when there was a hit out on Vincent or me.

Now it felt like the only place in the world I could breathe.

I sat on the couch in the dark, from sunset to sunrise. The only sound was the rain tapping against the windows.

Memories flooded in, unbidden.

Vincent proposing to me on the beach in Sicily, his hands shaking as he held out the ring.

Him carrying me over the threshold of this very mansion, promising me he’d never let anything hurt me. Him holding me in the hospital after I’d taken the bullet for him, crying and saying he’d rather die than lose me.

Eight years of blood and loyalty and love. All gone, because of a secretary and a pair of twins.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers hovering over the screen for a long time. Then I typed four words and hit send.

I want a divorce.

Less than ten minutes later, the front door was kicked open.

Vincent stormed in, rain dripping from his hair and his leather jacket, his eyes wild. "Isabella! What the hell is this?"

I sat quietly on the couch, staring at him. "I told you. I want a divorce."

"No!" he shouted, slamming his fist against the wall. A crack appeared in the plaster.

"I will never divorce you! I don’t care what you think about Sofia, I don’t care what the family says—you are my wife, and that’s never going to change!"

"I’m tired, Vincent," I said softly. "I’m tired of sharing you. I’m tired of being second best. I’m tired of looking at you and seeing the man who broke my heart."

"I said she’d never affect us!" he yelled, his voice breaking. "I told you I’d take care of it!"

His phone rang, shattering the silence.

He pulled it out of his pocket, and his face fell when he saw the caller ID. He looked at me, then at the phone, his jaw tight.

"Don’t," I said.

"I have to," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "It’s the baby."

He answered the phone, and his face immediately filled with concern. "Sofia? What’s wrong? ... What? How high? ... I’ll be right there."

He hung up the phone and looked at me, his eyes pleading.

"Bella, the baby has a fever. The doctor says it might be meningitis. I have to go."

I smiled, a cold, bitter thing. "Go ahead, Vincent. Your family needs you."

He hesitated for a second, then turned and ran out the door. The front door slammed shut behind him, and the house fell silent again.

I laughed, a hollow, broken sound.

This was my marriage. Even divorce had to wait for another woman’s child.