Chapter 2

"Ma'am, your bags cannot stay in the master suite."

The butler kept his head down as I stepped into the foyer of the Long Island estate.

Down the hallway, maids carried boxes of baby items right into my room.

Vivienne caught up to me and sighed. "Don't blame the staff, Camilla. Mia is sickly. She cannot take the cold. The master suite has the best heating system. Matteo ordered it himself."

I watched them take over the room I lived in for seven years. My face remained blank.

"Where do I stay?" I asked.

The butler looked everywhere except my eyes. "Matteo's mother, Vittoria, gave orders. The old armory behind the east wing is empty..."

"How dare you!" Bridget, my bodyguard, stepped up to reach for her piece.

I grabbed her wrist. "Take my bags to the back."

I walked into the main living room. The fireplace crackled with heat.

Matteo was already home, dressed in a dark casual shirt. Five-year-old Mia slept soundly on his broad lap, her little face pale and frail. Gianna knelt quietly by his knee, softly lighting a cigar for him.

They looked like a real family. It was sickening.

Vittoria sat stiffly in the center armchair. She slid a document across the coffee table toward me.

It was an adoption and trust agreement, stamped by the local bishop.

"Now that you are back, sign it," Vittoria said with ice in her voice. "Mia is Matteo's only flesh and blood. You are barren. You will sign as her adoptive mother so the Church can baptize her as his legal heir."

I fell silent for a few seconds. Then I gave my answer. "Fine."

Tears instantly flooded Gianna's eyes. She crawled across the floor toward Vittoria's feet, her voice shaking. "Thank you, ma'am. Mia and I do not need a name. We will stay here as maids just to serve the Don..."

Matteo frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That's enough. Camilla agreed. Stop crying."

He gently lifted the sleeping girl, handed her to an enforcer, and watched them carry her upstairs. Then he turned to look at me. His face carried the exhaustion of a sleepless night, but his eyes held the quiet authority of a boss.

"The floor is cold, Gianna. Get up," he told the woman on the floor. Then he stood up and walked over to me.

He took my cold fingers in his. His voice softened. "Camilla, I rushed out last night because Mia was suffocating. I had to save her. But everything I promised you was true."

He pulled out a signed asset transfer deed and pressed it into my palm.

"Every money laundering line and all seven underground banks in Brooklyn are yours starting today. Nobody can touch your money," he stared down into my eyes, completely serious. "Sign the paper. You stay the only Donna here. The girl will take nothing from you. I just need to give her a real name. You know how this family works, Camilla. Do not push this."

I looked down at the bloodstained transfer deed, my chest sinking into a strange, hollow quiet.

I shook my head. "No. I will sign the adoption papers. But I don't want your money."

Matteo's brow furrowed. "You want more?"

I looked into his dark eyes. Everyone talked about loyalty and hard choices. Everyone had an excuse. I held Chicago for seven years. I took bullets for him. I nursed the dying Don. But to Matteo, those seven years were just an expense account he could settle with cash.

He never understood. From the very beginning, all I ever wanted was to be his one and only Donna.

If that was impossible, there was nothing left to fight for.

I pressed my lips together and stood my ground. "Keep it. I don't want any of it."

Matteo stiffened. A flash of guilt and irritation passed through his eyes, but his pride could not allow him to lose control. "What do you want from me? She took a bullet for me! The child has my blood! I could not leave them to rot in Sicily! We all have to compromise. Why are you backing me into a corner right now?"

He paused, then added, "Besides, you cannot have kids. How is this bad for you?"

I looked at his self-righteous face, feeling nothing but pure disgust.

I grew up frail. The year he proposed, I told him straight out that I might never give him children. He held my hand back then and told me the Mafia did not care about bloodlines. He said we could adopt. He told me not to be afraid.

Now, he stood here telling me to raise another woman's kid.

There was no fixing this. There was nothing left to say. I managed a faint, bloodless smile. "It's fine, Matteo. I'm not angry." I am just letting you go.

"That settles it," Vittoria said flatly. "You don't get to question the Don. Making a scene about divorce at the coronation humiliated this entire family. I will have the butler downgrade your security clearance. You are barred from the main house until you reflect on your behavior."

Matteo did not stop his mother. He just looked at me with weary persuasion. "The back is quiet. Stay there for a few days. Once everyone calms down, I will bring you back to the main house."

The home I built for seven years, and I was expected to beg to come back.

That was his answer to me.

I nodded, offered not a single word, and turned toward the drafty armory out back.

The room smelled of gun oil and rusted iron racks. Freezing wind blew right through the cracked windows.

I opened my black metal box and pulled out a yellowed handwritten letter.

It arrived during the winter of the fifth year.

The handwriting belonged to Matteo:

Baby, it is snowing hard in Sicily. I miss your warmth. I trust you with Chicago. I know you can hold the line.

When I read that letter back then, I feared his men were starving on the front line. I secretly sold the thoroughbred ranch left by my grandmother. I wired two million dollars in arms to Europe overnight.

A sudden burst of laughter drifted across the dark lawn.

Through the broken glass, I saw Matteo under the yard lights. He had little Mia sitting on his broad shoulders, spinning her around in circles.

Gianna stood next to them, smiling through her fingers. "Matteo, do you remember that snow day two years ago? Right here, you snuck her that first taste of cake..."

My knuckles turned white around the letter.

Bridget stepped over with bloodshot eyes. "Ma'am... should we burn these?"

I lowered my gaze. I smoothed the paper out with my thumb and locked it back into the metal box.

"Keep them," I said quietly. "I need them until my last day here. I need every word to remind me what I really was to him. A cheap guard dog."