Too Late, Mr. Don: The Wife You Buried

I went to the family lawyer for a routine travel clearance. Instead, I was handed a divorce decree. The ink was three years old. While I had been playing the role of the dutiful Capo's wife, Dante had secretly divorced me the day after our fifth anniversary. Twenty-four hours later, he legally married the nanny, Gia, and named her cruel-eyed son as his heir. I returned home to confront him, only for the boy to throw boiling tomato soup on me. Dante didn't check my burns. He cradled the boy and looked at me with pure, drug-fueled hatred, calling me a monster for upsetting his "son." The final blow came in a parking garage. A car sped toward us. Dante didn't pull me to safety. He shoved me into the vehicle's path, using my body as a human shield to protect his mistress. Lying broken on the asphalt, I realized Aria Vitiello was already dead to him. So, I decided to make it official. I arranged a private flight over the Atlantic and ensured there were no survivors. By the time Dante was weeping over the wreckage, realizing too late that he had been poisoned against me, I was already in France. The Canary was dead. The Reaper had risen. Chapter 1 Aria POV The ink on the divorce decree was three years old, but the paper sliced my thumb like a fresh blade as I held it. I sat in the wingback leather chair across from Mr. Rossi, the family lawyer who had known me since I was a child in braids. He was sweating. A bead of perspiration rolled down his graying temple, betraying the terrified silence that suffocated the room. I had come here simply to renew my security clearance for international travel-a routine procedure for the wife of a Capo. Instead, I was staring at my own erasure. "This is a mistake," I said, my voice sounding hollow, as if coming from a great distance. "We are Catholic. We are Cosa Nostra. We do not divorce." Mr. Rossi wiped his forehead with a trembling handkerchief. He couldn't meet my eyes. "It was filed quietly, Donna Aria. Sealed by the highest judges in Chicago. The Don insisted on absolute secrecy." I looked at the date again. Three years ago. The day after our fifth anniversary. The day after I had woken up alone in our bed, told by the maids that Dante had urgent business. "And this?" I pointed to the second document. A marriage certificate. Dated twenty-four hours after the divorce. Dante Vitiello. Gia Russo. My husband was not my husband. For three years, I had been living a lie, playing the role of the dutiful wife, hosting his dinners, warming his bed, all while he was legally bound to the woman he called the nanny. Mr. Rossi slid a third document across the mahogany desk, his movements hesitant. "He has also formally recognized the boy, Leo, as his blood heir. The Vitiello line continues through him." The room spun. I gripped the armrests of the chair to keep from sliding to the floor. Leo. The boy with the cruel eyes and the mother who mixed herbal teas that smelled like sulfur and rot. A sick realization clawed at my throat. I remembered my wedding day. I remembered Gia standing in the back, smiling as I drank the wine that tasted slightly off-metallic, wrong. I remembered the sickness that followed, the months of agony, and the doctor telling me my womb had withered. I was barren. I remembered Dante holding my hand then. He had sworn a Vendetta against anyone who had hurt me. He had promised to burn the world for me. Now I knew he had married the arsonist. I stood up. My legs felt like lead, but my spine was steel. It was the only thing holding me together. "I will take these copies," I said. Mr. Rossi looked like he wanted to stop me, to offer some useless apology, but he knew better. I walked out of the office and into the waiting armored car. The drive back to the estate was a blur of gray Chicago streets. I felt nothing. The shock was a cold anesthetic, numbing the amputation of my life. When I entered the foyer, the house felt different. It was no longer my sanctuary. It was a stage, and I was the prop that had overstayed its welcome. Voices drifted from the parlor. I stopped outside the open doors, remaining in the shadows. Dante was there. He was pacing, his movements jerky, his pupils wide and dilated. Gia sat on the velvet sofa, watching him with a predator's patience. "She is asking questions, Dante," Gia said softly. Her voice was like syrup laced with arsenic. "She went to Rossi today." Dante ran a hand through his hair. He looked manic, a man unraveling. "It does not matter. She is nothing. You are the Queen, Gia. You always have been." He fell to his knees before her, burying his face in her lap. It was a display of submission that made my stomach turn. Dante Vitiello did not kneel. The Reaper did not beg. But this man-this husk of a husband-was worshiping her. "I need you," he mumbled into the fabric of her dress, his voice cracking. "The tea, Gia. My head is splitting." She stroked his hair, her eyes lifting to meet mine in the hallway. She knew I was there. She smiled. "Soon, my love," she said to him, staring right at me. I backed away. I retreated to the guest wing, the only place that felt remotely safe. My hand went to my flat stomach, feeling the phantom ache of the children I would never have. They had taken my husband, my title, and my future. I pulled my burner phone from my purse. My hands were steady now. The shaking had stopped when the hope died. I dialed a number I had never used, but had memorized for a lifetime. "Luca," I whispered when the line clicked open. "Aria." His voice was deep, rough like gravel. "Why are you calling on this line?" "I need a cleaner," I said, staring at the blank wall. "Who is the target?" he asked. "Me."