The Wife He Waited Ten Years For

An associate working the books in his legitimate front.

A secret.

My injuries weren't serious, so the doctor kept me under observation for three days before discharging me. Everything was routine. Quiet. Uneventful. The private clinic smelled of antiseptic and old money, and the staff moved with the particular carefulness of people who knew better than to ask whose name was really on the bill.

The charges went through the Family's insurance arrangement, and whatever was left over was refunded directly back to Salvatore's account.

Three days.

Not a single visit.

Not even a message.

And then, on the day I was discharged, my phone rang.

"You're out already?" Salvatore's voice came through, casual, almost mildly annoyed. "You could've at least given me a heads-up."

I held the phone in silence.

"I've got a meet today," he continued. "Can't come pick you up."

"…Okay."

That was all I said.

I swallowed everything else. The questions that rose to my throat. The ones that used to matter.

I didn't ask where he was.

I didn't ask who he was with.

Instead, I opened my phone and checked his location.

A hotel. One of the ones on Family-controlled territory, the kind with discreet staff and no cameras in the hallways.

I didn't need him to explain anything. I didn't need confirmation.

Then, faintly, through the receiver, I heard a woman's voice.

"Come dry my hair, will you?"

The line went dead almost instantly.

He hung up.

I stared at my phone for a moment, unmoving.

Not long after, two transfer notifications popped up.

$1,314.

$1,520.

The numbers hit me harder than anything else.

They weren't random.

They meant something. They always had.

1314 meant forever.

1520 meant I love you.

For years, I had wished for this. For him to send me those numbers, for something so simple and symbolic. I had imagined taking a screenshot, posting it, just once, like everyone else. Just once, to show that I had something real.

But every time I brought it up, he refused.

He didn't like attention.

He didn't want people asking questions.

He didn't want anyone knowing. A Don's private life was a liability, he said. Something rivals could use.

And now… now that I had already decided to let him go, he sent them?

I didn't know if it was guilt. Or habit. Or something else entirely.

I opened his profile without thinking.

The moment it loaded, I froze.

His profile picture had changed.

It was a couple photo.

But not with me.

I didn't hesitate.

I returned both transfers immediately.

A few seconds later, my phone buzzed again.

A string of question marks.

I didn't reply.

When I got back to the apartment, nothing had changed.

Everything was exactly the same as the night of the gala. The same shoes by the door. The same jacket tossed over the chair. The same faint scent lingering in the air, cologne and something sharper beneath it, the ghost of a world where decisions were made in back rooms and sealed with handshakes that could never be taken back.

Which meant one thing.

He hadn't been back.

Not once.

I stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle around me. Then I took a deep breath, pushed down the tight ache rising in my chest, and started packing.

It didn't take long.

Piece by piece, the space began to empty.

Five years.

Five years of a life I had carefully built around him, dismantled in just a few hours.

Most of what I packed were things I had chosen myself.

Couple items.

Matching mugs. Coordinated clothes. Small decorations that hinted at something shared.

Salvatore had never liked any of it.

He never wore anything that could suggest he was taken. Never used anything too obvious. He said a man in his position couldn't afford to look soft. Couldn't give anyone a handle to grip.

I used to joke about it.

Saying he acted like some deep-cover fed, hiding his identity from the world.

Now I realized.

It was never a joke.

He just never saw me as someone he needed to claim.

I was halfway through packing when I heard the door open.

He came back.

"Elena, what's this about?" he snapped the moment he saw me. "I've been calling you! I told you to come out for dinner. You didn't pick up or reply!"

I didn't look up immediately.

The scent reached me first.

A woman's perfume.

Not mine.

Not even close.

Without thinking, I lifted my hand slightly, stopping him from coming any closer.

When I finally raised my eyes, they drifted to his neck.

Faint red marks.

Hickeys.

"Sorry," I said calmly, my voice steady. I smoothed the fold of a blouse flat against the suitcase lining, pressing the crease until it was sharp enough to cut. "I've been busy. Didn't check my phone."

He frowned, his gaze sweeping across the room.

Only then did he notice the suitcases. The empty shelves. The missing pieces.

"Don't tell me you've been busy tearing down the house," he said, irritation creeping into his tone. "You just got out of the clinic. You should be resting."

His eyes landed on a few unopened boxes I hadn't gotten to yet.

Inside were the couple items I had bought recently. Still new. Still unused.

"You don't want any of this?" he asked.