She's Still His Wife

DANTE'S PERSPECTIVE

I stepped out of the bathroom.

Steam clung to my skin. The towel hung low on my hips, water still dripping down my back.

She was lying exactly where I left her.

Face soft. Legs parted. The sheets tangled around her like ribbons.

Like nothing happened.

Like I hadn’t just fucked every trace of another man’s name off her skin.

But something itched in my head, because for a second, I thought I saw it.

A smile.

Not the gentle kind. Not relief. Not affection.

No.

It looked like satisfaction.

It looked like she liked it.

I blinked once. Gone.

Maybe the steam got to me. Maybe I was seeing things.

I dried off, tossed the towel onto the bed without looking at her again.

I didn’t feel guilty. Not even a little.

She was mine.

That mess? The bruises. The come between her thighs. The tremble in her legs.

All of it mine.

But that guard.

Luca fucking Alessi.

Twenty-four. Too young. Too green. Too close.

He sat on the bench beside her like he’d been invited. Laughed like he belonged there.

She laughed back.

Real. Unfiltered.

And it was that,

not the sex,

not the bruises,

not even the goddamn blood still drying on my knuckles,

that wouldn’t stop fucking echoing in my head.

I threw on a fresh black shirt, fastened my cufflinks without checking the mirror, and stepped out of the bedroom.

My office door slammed shut behind me.

“Malcolm,” I barked into the intercom. “Bring me everything we have on Luca Alessi. Now.”

A pause. Then: “On it, boss.”

I dropped into my chair, fingers drumming once against the oak desk. My phone lit up with the usual flood of unread messages, but I didn’t touch it.

Let the world burn a little longer.

She said his name. Smiled at him like she meant it.

She’s my wife.

In name. In title. In every legal binding that matters.

And still… I’ve never treated her like one.

Not once.

Didn’t ask how her day went. Didn’t care where she bled, as long as it wasn’t outside this house.

I’ve fucked her more times than I’ve spoken to her.

And now some kid walks in, looks at her like a person, and suddenly she’s laughing like the bruises don’t exist.

A knock pulled me out of it.

Malcolm walked in, sharp as always. Charcoal gray suit, buzzed head, no bullshit. He held a manila folder in one hand, a familiar scowl in the other.

“Alessi’s clean,” he said, placing the file on my desk. “Former military. Transferred to private security a year ago. Quiet record. No debts, no flags, no chatter.”

I flipped it open. Eyes scanned.

Flawless background. Top ten percentile in his class. Specializes in protection detail, close-quarters combat. Disciplined. Loyal.

“Let him stay,” I said.

Malcolm arched a brow. “You sure?”

“He’s not a threat,” I muttered. “If anything happens, I want him close enough to control. Not outside where I can’t see him.”

Malcolm nodded once. But he didn’t leave.

“There’s something else,” he said. “About your wife.”

I looked up.

“What about her?”

“This morning. The maids. Head staff.” He paused. “They’ve been treating her like shit behind your back.”

My jaw tensed.

“Say that again.”

Malcolm didn’t flinch.

“There’s more. About your wife.”

I looked up from the file.

Sharp. Cold. “What about her?”

He shifted his weight slightly, arms crossed. Testing me.

“The house staff’s been talking. Not just today. It’s been going on for months.”

My fingers curled slightly.

He continued, calm, but precise.

“They ignore her. Cut her off mid-sentence. Whisper behind her back when she passes. Call her things when they think no one’s listening. A few of the younger maids call her ‘the ghost bride.’ Say she doesn’t even act like a Don’s wife. Say she doesn’t belong.”

I said nothing.

He went on.

“They make her clean up her own tea. Set her own table. Sometimes don’t even serve her food unless she asks twice. They leave her out of the household decisions. Don’t ask her about anything. Don’t give her updates.”

Still nothing from me.

Then:

“I saw it myself this morning. Head maid, put every ingredient back inside the fridge, while she was still cooking. Didn’t say a word. Just smiled.”

That made my jaw clench.

“She smiled, boss. Like it didn’t even faze her.”

His tone shifted then, just slightly. Not disrespectful, but deliberate.

“Didn’t think you’d care. You never asked about her.”

I didn’t look at him. I stared at the space just past his shoulder, the edges of the bookshelf where her untouched books sat. One spine still crooked from when she once shelved it herself.

I’d never cared before.

But now?

Now that he said it aloud…

It gnawed at something I didn’t want to name.

“Who else knew?” I asked, voice low.

“Some of the other guards. Staff in the kitchen. They say she just takes it. Never complains. Never raises her voice. Like she’s just... waiting out the clock.”

Waiting.

In my house.

With my name.

Being treated like she was invisible.

Not even the title of Lucchese kept them in line?

“She’s your wife, boss,” Malcolm said, and this time his words had a little more weight. “Even if you never touched her like one, they still know whose she is. But they stopped respecting that somewhere along the way. Figured if you didn’t protect her, they didn’t have to either.”

That was it.

The switch flipped.

The pressure behind my temple burned.

“She wears my name,” I muttered. “That should’ve been enough.”

He nodded, silent.

“Have the staff rotated by morning. Start with the head maid. Quiet. Clean. No one questions it.”

“Understood,” he said, already reaching for his phone.

“And tell the kitchen to prepare dinner,” I added. “Table for two.”

Malcolm froze. “With her?”

I didn’t blink. “It’s been three years. Let’s see if she still remembers how to sit across from me.”

He didn’t speak again. Just nodded once and left.

And as the door clicked shut behind him, I stood there with my jaw tight, the silence crawling across the walls.

It wasn’t about love.

Never was.

But this house?

This name?

This woman?

She still belonged to me.

And I’ll be damned if anyone forgets it again.