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 gu

In the top-floor suite of the Golden Palace casino, the heads of the Five Families sat around a green velvet table. Soft light from a crystal chandelier filled the room, which smelled of Cuban cigars and whiskey.I was there in Vincent’s place, wearing a black silk evening gown and a Rolex I’d won in an earlier hand. The game was going well—I’d just won three rounds in a row, and my chips were stacked into a small mountain.“The new Mrs. Moretti has quite a talent for the game,” the don of the Colombo family said, raising his glass. I smiled and raised my glass in return.Just then, I saw Dante quietly slip away from the table and head down a hallway behind the main room. He was trying to be discreet, but he didn’t escape my notice.“Excuse me, I need to use the powder room,” I said, rising gracefully.The hallway was lined with Persian rugs and priceless oil paintings. My heels sank into the carpet as I followed Dante’s silhouette to the end of the hall.Suite 3508.A sliver of light

Dante glared at me, the hatred in his eyes so intense it was almost tangible. After a long moment, a strange, twisted smile spread across his face.“Isabella, you think you’ve won?” His voice was low and venomous. “I’ve already written to my grandmother in Sicily. She’ll be here soon, and when she arrives, she’s going to throw a filthy woman like you out of the Moretti family. You just wait. Your little fairytale is about to end.”My stomach dropped. Don Moretti’s mother—the Matriarch, Francesca Moretti. She was a woman even Vincent respected, a legend in her own right. If she really came back…But I kept my composure. “We’ll see about that.”“See about it?” Dante’s smile grew wider, more sinister. “Grandmother despises schemers. When she finds out you’re the reason I lost my inheritance, she will make you pay. I promise you that.”“I’m the reason?” I scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from you.”“At least I have true Moretti blood in my veins!” Dante suddenly thrashed, trying to get up. “Y

The words hit like a bomb.Francesca collapsed into her chair. Dante’s face went completely white.Vincent just stood there, his expression a storm of conflicting emotions: anger, betrayal, pain, and maybe even relief.“It’s not possible…” Francesca whispered. “There must be a mistake…”“Matriarch,” the doctor said respectfully, “we ran the test three times. The results are conclusive. Furthermore, we found something else.”“What?” Vincent asked.“Based on the genetic profile, the boy has strong genetic markers from Eastern Europe. Russia, to be precise.”Russian ancestry. A Bratva tattoo. It all made sense.The rest of the truth wasn’t hard to uncover. Dante’s real father was a Russian mobster. His mother, and Dante himself, had been part of a long-con, a trap designed to place a sleeper agent at the head of the Moretti family.Faced with the undeniable evidence, Dante crumpled to the floor, all the fight gone out of him, and grabbed at Vincent’s legs. “Father, please, for the sake of

On our way, we stopped in Rome for a day. That evening, as we walked near the Trevi Fountain, we saw an unexpected sight.A man, filthy and dressed in rags, was on his knees, begging from tourists. A deep, jagged scar ran from his left eye to the corner of his mouth, giving him a terrifying appearance.I didn’t recognize him at first. But when he looked up, I saw his eyes, and I knew instantly.Dante.In just three months, he had been reduced to this. Not only was his face destroyed, but it looked like his leg had been broken again. He limped more severely than ever.He saw us, too, and his eyes filled with a familiar, burning hatred.“Vincent! Isabella!” He struggled to his feet and staggered toward us. “It was you! You did this to me!”Tourists scattered, frightened by his shouting. Vincent stepped in front of me, his eyes cold as he looked at the man who was once his “son.”“Dante, how did this happen to you?” I asked. I felt no pity, only a morbid curiosity.“It’s your fault!” he s