My Husband's Secret Mafia Bride

"Read the results," I said.

Dr. Russo stood on the opposite side of the steel examination table. His fingers gripped the printed lab report tight enough to crease the edges.

"Signora, did you authorize a prescription for chemical contraceptives?"

"I never take pills."

Russo lowered the sheet. The color drained from his face, leaving his skin an ashen gray. "The mass spectrometry flagged a synthetic compound. It’s a heavy ovarian function inhibitor. A low-dose metabolic trace, which means it has steadily built up in your system over a long period."

"What kind of inhibitor?"

"A custom blend. It mimics premature ovarian failure. It’s completely untraceable in a standard blood panel. You only caught it because you demanded a full-spectrum toxicology screen with that photo of the invitation."

"How long have I been ingesting it?"

"Two years. Minimum."

I stared at the sterile white tiles. A cold numbness washed over my skin, freezing the blood in my veins. "Pull my physicals from the last twenty-four months."

Russo turned to his monitor and tapped his keyboard. "Three separate diagnoses of unexplained infertility. All signed by Dr. Falcone."

"Julian’s recommended specialist."

"Yes."

"Print them," I ordered. "Every original chart, every lab slip, every doctor's note."

"Printing them now."

"Put them in a physical lockbox and send it straight to Enzo. Then wipe out my digital file on this server."

Russo froze. "Wiping medical records violates board protocol."

"Do it, Russo. Or my father will wipe this entire clinic off the map."

"I'll purge the drives immediately."

I walked over to the frosted window. The morning sun glared off the glass, harsh and blinding.

My eyes remained dry. My chest felt hollowed out, scraped clean by a rusted blade.

Three years.

Every morning at seven, Julian stood by the kitchen island. He ground the espresso beans. He squeezed the fresh oranges. He peeled the boiled eggs.

*Here, babe. Take your fertility vitamin.*

He would place the small white capsule directly into my palm. He would watch me swallow it. He would kiss my forehead right after, his lips warm against my skin.

A daily dose of poison, served with a loving smile.

The underground parking garage smelled of exhaust and damp concrete. My leather flats struck the pavement in a steady rhythm as I walked toward the Aston Martin.

I pulled my cell out and dialed an encrypted number.

"Rosa," my father answered. His voice rumbled through the speaker, thick with authority.

"Julian bypassed the sub-level security at one-thirty this morning," I said, stopping beside my driver's side door.

"Did he take cash?"

"He took the diamond crown."

A sharp exhale punched through the line.

"He put it on another woman's head," I continued, staring at my own reflection in the tinted window. "She's pregnant. And I just left Russo's office."

"Are you hurt?"

"Julian has been slipping me sterilizing drugs for two years. His private doctor covered the tracks."

Silence stretched across the connection.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven seconds.

The silence carried the weight of a loaded gun.

"I will leave him entirely to you," my father finally said. The words dropped like anvils, devoid of any mercy.

"Yes," I replied.

I ended the call.

I turned around.

A black SUV idled in the spot directly across from mine. I didn't recognize the plates. The engine hummed low, a steady vibration against the concrete walls.

The driver’s door swung open.

A man stepped out.

He wore a dark gray suit, perfectly tailored, with a black shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Thick dark hair framed a hard jawline. A jagged scar cut through his left eyebrow.

Matteo Conti.

My father’s youngest Capo. The man who had famously vanished on the day of my wedding three years ago, refusing to stand inside the church.

He walked straight toward me. His strides ate up the distance between us. He didn't look like a man who had been awake all night. He looked ready for a slaughter.

He stopped two feet away and held out a thick manila folder.

"The Don ordered me to stay glued to your side from today on," Matteo said. His voice was a rough gravel scrape.

I took the folder from his hand. The paper felt warm from his grip.

I kept my focus on the metal clasp of the envelope. I didn't look up at his eyes.

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

"Since you made that call at three in the morning."

I traced the edge of the manila flap. "You followed me to the villa."

"I watched you sit in the driveway."

"Why didn't you intervene?"

"You didn't ask for help." Matteo shifted his weight. "And you didn't look like a woman who needed saving."

"What's in the file?"

"Everything Enzo dug up. Bank routing numbers, property deeds, the woman's medical history." He pointed at the envelope. "Her name is Elena Vargas. She's seven months along."

"Julian told me he was handling a customs crisis at the docks."

"He bought her a two-million-dollar estate in Malibu under a shell company."

I finally raised my chin and met his gaze. Matteo's dark eyes locked onto mine, unblinking and sharp.

"I need a favor, Matteo."

"I take orders, Signora. Not favors."

"I need you to break into my husband's office."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "What am I looking for?"

"The safe behind his desk. He keeps a secondary ledger there."

"Consider it done." He stepped closer. The scent of black pepper and rain washed over me. "Where will you be?"

"I have a baby shower to attend."

Matteo tilted his head. "You want me to drive you?"

"No. I'm taking my own car."

"I follow right behind you."

"Fine."

I turned toward the Aston Martin. My hand grabbed the door handle.

"Rosa," Matteo called out.

I paused, glancing over my shoulder. He hadn't used my formal title.

"He won't survive this week," Matteo stated, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets.

"I know," I said. "Because I'm the one who's going to kill him."

I yanked the car door open and slid into the driver's seat. I tossed the manila folder onto the passenger side and hit the ignition.

The engine roared. I threw the car into gear and sped out of the parking garage.

My phone buzzed in the cup holder. A text message flashed across the screen.

*Julian: Just wrapped up at the docks. Missing you. Can't wait for our Hamptons trip.*

I stared at the glowing words.

I hit the accelerator, merging onto the highway. The baby shower started at noon. I had exactly three hours to prepare my gift.