His Father's Wife

Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting patterns on the marble floor. I walked toward the dining room in my slippers, the wedding ring on my finger a glittering reminder of last night’s unbelievable ceremony.

The estate was quiet. Vincent had been gone for two hours, leaving me alone in this unfamiliar home.

As I pushed open the dining room’s double doors, a figure stumbled into me from the side.

“Fuck!”

It was Dante.

He had clearly just gotten home. His suit was wrinkled, his tie was crooked, and he reeked of booze and cheap perfume. The signs of a long night were all over his haggard face.

The moment our eyes met, his surprise turned to disgust.

“What the hell are you still doing here?” He shook his head, trying to clear it. “I thought I made myself clear. We’re done, Isabella. What more do you want?”

I adjusted the collar of my silk robe and looked at him calmly. “Good morning, Dante.”

“Good morning?” he sneered. “Cut the crap. I know why you’re here. Let me guess—you’re trying to use my father to pressure me? Get him to force me to marry you?”

I didn’t answer, just watched him quietly as he continued his little performance.

“Listen here, you bitch,” he stepped forward, grabbing my arm roughly. “I’d rather die than marry you. That bullshit marriage contract your dead father left behind means nothing to me. I’m the Moretti heir, not your slave!”

His fingers dug into my skin, leaving red marks.

“Let go,” I said, my voice soft but cold.

“Or what? What are you gonna do about it?”

Just then, a bodyguard appeared at the end of the hall. He saw what was happening and rushed over.

“Let go of Mrs. Moretti, sir!”

Mrs. Moretti?

Dante froze for a second, then exploded with rage.

“What? Mrs. Moretti?” He spun on the bodyguard, his eyes blazing. “What did you just say?”

“Sir, please, you need to let go of the Don's wife—”

THUD.

Dante kicked the bodyguard hard in the stomach, and the man doubled over, collapsing to the floor.

“You dare call this bitch ‘Mrs. Moretti’? Who the hell does she think she is?” Dante’s roar echoed through the hall. “She’s a piece of unwanted trash! A parasite trying to latch onto our family!”

I knelt and helped the guard, who was clutching his stomach. He looked young, maybe early twenties.

“Are you okay?” I asked softly.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Moretti,” he answered through gritted teeth.

“Mrs. Moretti? Mrs. Moretti!” Dante was losing his mind. “Are you all crazy? This woman is nothing! She’s—”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

I stood up, brushing the dust off my robe. This time, I looked him straight in the eye, my voice as sharp as a razor.

“You’re right about one thing, Dante. I don’t have to marry you.” I paused, a knowing smile playing on my lips. “After all, you’re not the only man in the Moretti family—”

“Bullshit!” Before I could finish, he shoved me aside and stormed off. “I don't have time for your games, Isabella.”

I watched his back disappear down the hall.

The young bodyguard, Antonio, was still beside me, looking confused.

“Mrs. Moretti, should I go after him?”

“No.” I reached out and straightened his collar. “Tell me, Antonio, how long have you been with this family?”

“Three years, ma'am.”

“Then you should know who really calls the shots in this house.”

He nodded. “Don Vincent.”

“Good.” I started toward the dining room. “Now, please inform the kitchen I’m ready for breakfast. And one more thing—”

I glanced back in the direction Dante had disappeared.

“From this day forward, no one sets foot in this house without my permission. That includes family.”

Antonio’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly composed himself. “Yes, Mrs. Moretti. I’ll inform the others immediately.”

As I sat alone at the long table enjoying my breakfast, the sun warmed my face. Vincent’s estate was large and quiet, but now it was mine.

And that fool Dante still thought he was the only man in this family worth marrying.

The phone rang.

“Mrs. Moretti,” the consigliere Marco’s voice came through the line, “word from Chicago. Don Vincent would like you to move into the master bedroom today. He also wants to know if you require anything.”

The master bedroom. Vincent’s room.

“Tell him,” I said, putting down my coffee cup, my voice calm and firm, “I don’t need anything. But I expect everyone in this house to know who runs it by the time he returns.”

After hanging up, I looked out at the garden. In the distance, gardeners were trimming the rose bushes. The red petals were as brilliant as blood in the sun.

This was only the beginning.