The Mafia Boss's Estranged Bride.

The studio was quiet except the sound of Isabella Romano’s brush moving lightly over the cracked surface of the old canvas. The lamp light bathed the painting in a warm glow as she leaned in close, her steady hand guiding the fine bristles over faded paint. The piece stretched across her wooden table, delicate and tired; centuries old and showing every year of it.

“Almost there,” she whispered.

Restoration work was never easy because patience wasn’t just helpful, it was essential. Isabella had learned that the hard way because every crack, every shadow, every worn-out color demanded a gentle touch, any slip, and years of history would vanish in a single careless swipe.

Sometimes, it felt a lot like life itself because there were some damages you could fix by bringing it back bit by bit. But other scars? You just had to learn how to cover them up.

She sat back and studied her progress. The dull yellow varnish was starting to lift, and in its place, a soft golden light peeked through.

Beautiful, she thought. And forgotten, too, just waiting for a second chance. A faint smile touched her lips.

“You’re so lucky because not everyone gets to come back,” she told the painting.

Her phone buzzed on the table. She ignored it, picking it up after the second buzz. It was Sofia, her best friend calling.

Isabella balanced the phone between her shoulder and cheek, dabbing her hands clean with a cloth.

“Normal people sleep at this hour, Sofia.”

“Did you check your email?” Sofia replied as she never bothered with small talk.

Isabella let out a quiet laugh. “Is that how we’re saying hello now?”

“Bella.”

“I saw it.”

“And?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Sofia groaned loud enough for Isabella to hold the phone away from her ears “That job could change everything for you!”

Isabella walked to the window, glancing out at the sleepy Milan street and the freshly washed pavement gleamed under the streetlights. She spotted a couple wandering by, their laughter echoing softly against the stone.

“I have what I need, Sof.” Her voice was calm.

“What the heck do you mean by that Bella? You work in a studio the size of a broom closet.”

Isabella shrugged. “It’s a very charming closet.”

“You deserve more.”

It was an old argument. Isabella had heard it a hundred times, but it always missed the point. Peace isn’t cheap, that she knew too well because she’d paid for every ounce she had.

“So what’s so special about this one?” She asked, though she already knew.

Sofia’s sigh carried across the line. “It’s the De Luca Foundation Gala.”

Isabella’s hand tightened on the phone. She stared out the window, saw her own reflection, her dark hair was pulled back in messy tangle with sharp eyes that spoke about five years of change.

“You’re quiet,” Sofia said.

“I’m thinking.”

“You know who’s hosting the gala, right?”

A faint, wry smile tugged at Isabella’s lips. “I do.”

“Then you should know why I’m worried.”

Of course she knew. Everyone in Italy knew the name Lorenzo De Luca. The smart-ass businessman and phiilanthropist. But if the rumors were true, he was a man whose shadow reached much further.

Five years ago, Isabella had called him something else.

Husband.

But that life belonged to another woman now.

“I’d be behind the scenes,” she finally said, her voice soft. “ It's just restoring a painting. I don’t need to go near the guests.”

“That’s not the point.”

“ But I need the money,” Isabella admitted, which wasn’t entirely a lie.

Sofia fell quiet on the line.

“And Matteo?” she finally asked.

Just hearing his name softened Isabella’s whole expression. Her gaze drifted to a tiny backpack in the corner, shoes barely big enough for a toddler tucked beside it. Matteo was asleep at Sofia’s apartment, worn out from a busy day. He was her world and her reason for hiding all these years.

“He’ll be alright,” she said gently.

Sofia sounded tired now. “I just hate seeing you near that world again.”

Isabella hated it, too. But life rarely followed neat lines.

“I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“If anything feels wrong, you walk away. No questions.” Sofia continued

“I will.”

The call ended. Silence wrapped around her again.She returned to the table, as her eyes fell on the elegant invitation beside her work.

The golden letters lined on cream paper: The De Luca Foundation Charity Gala. Hosted by Lorenzo De Luca.

Her chest tightened.

It's been five years. Five years since she left Italy with nothing but a suitcase and a secret she hardly dared name. Five years spent doing everything to make the world believe Isabella Romano was gone for good.

She slid the invitation into her bag. It was just a job. Just one night and nothing more.

Switching off the lights, Isabella slipped out into the cool Milan air. The streets were hushed. She locked the door, drifted toward the subway, her footsteps echoing on the cobbles.

Halfway down the block, a flicker of unease made her glance back, she saw nothing but a black car parked beneath a streetlight, quiet and still. She kept walking.

Inside the car, a man lowered his camera. His screen showed Isabella’s face, clear as day. He frowned, his thumb hovered over his phone, then dialed.

The call picked up immediately.

“Yes,” came a deep, controlled voice.

“Boss… You need to see something.”

“What?”

The man looked at the photo again. “I think… I just saw your wife.”

“That’s impossible,” said the voice as silence stretched across the line, thick and cold.

“Yes, boss.”

“Send me the picture.” the voice replied calmly after a longer pause,

In a sprawling estate on the outskirts of Milan, Lorenzo De Luca stared at his phone. His expression didn’t crack, but the air in the room froze.

For five years, the world said Isabella Romano was dead and yet the woman in the photo looked exactly like her.

He studied it one more time, then stood out.

“Prepare the car,” he ordered, his voice quiet and as flat as winter stone.

If Isabella Romano was still alive,she wouldn’t disappear again so easily and he would make sure of that .