All Chapters of MARRIED TO THE MAFIA: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

LucaI hate this.It has been a few days since I got discharged from the hospital and it still felt the same. Nothing had changed. The thought loops in my head like a curse I can’t shake, a relentless drumbeat that drowns out everything else. I hate this weakness. I hate the way everyone looks at me like I’m a broken thing they don’t know how to fix.I grip the arms of the wheelchair until my knuckles turn white. My legs feel like dead weight attached to my body, a humiliating reminder that the man I was Luca DeLuca, the man who never bowed to anyone is gone.“Luca?” Lila’s soft voice cuts through the static of my rage. She’s standing in the doorway, holding a small tray with a cup of coffee and a pill bottle. Her eyes dart to my hands, then to my face, searching for a crack in the mask I’ve spent years perfecting.“What,” I snap, harsher than I intend. I can’t help it. Every word tastes like poison in my mouth.She flinches but doesn’t retreat. She never does. Out of all the people o

LilaI sit in the little office off the main hall, my hands folded tightly in my lap. The clock on the wall ticks steadily, a metronome marking time I can’t get back. Time Luca spends alone in that room, refusing to let anyone help him.Dr. Bennett studies the folder open on the desk between us, her brow furrowed behind her glasses. She’s been Luca’s physician since before I ever met him long enough to have seen the parts of him even I don’t fully understand.“You’re worried about him,” she says quietly, as if she needs to confirm something we both already know.I nod, my throat too tight to speak.“He’s refusing most of the pain medication,” she continues, flipping to another page in the file. “Refusing physical therapy. Refusing meals. He’s lost four pounds since he came home.”“I know.” My voice comes out hoarse, too small for the size of the ache in my chest. “I try to get him to eat, but he just…won’t. He won’t talk to me. He won’t look at me if he can help it.”Dr. Bennett closes

Lila.I was in the kitchen, rinsing out the coffee pot for the third time that morning, when Marta came to find me. Her shoes clicked briskly over the tile, her expression tight in a way that made my stomach clench.“Signora,” she murmured, lowering her voice, “there is…someone at the door.”I set the pot aside and wiped my damp hands on a dish towel. “Who is it?”“She wouldn’t give a name.” Marta shifted uncomfortably. “She only said she is here to see her son.”I frowned. “Luca doesn’t have any…”“She said her son’s name is Luca.”The words lodged in my chest like a stone. “That’s impossible,” I said, my voice coming out too sharp. “His mother,she died in a car accident.”Marta hesitated, her eyes darting toward the hall. “I know what the family says. But she was very insistent. She says she will wait as long as she must.”A chill skated down my spine. There were always people who came to the house with outlandish stories old associates, petty criminals, women hoping to get a glimpse

AnnaI never imagined I’d stand in this house again.The walls still smell the same polished wood, old roses, something colder underneath it all. The ghosts here are almost as real as the sons who refuse to look me in the eye.I sit on the edge of the settee in the study. The same room Richard used to call me into when he wanted to remind me how small and foolish I was.Luca keeps to the far side, a storm coiled tight beneath his too-calm face. Alex sits beside me, though he’s not touching me anymore. He hasn’t since we came back inside.The young woman, Luca’s wife sits in a chair by the fireplace, her hands clasped so tight in her lap her knuckles are white. She is afraid of me. I can see it in the way she studies me with cautious eyes.Good. Maybe she should be. Maybe everyone should be.Because I am not the woman I was when I left this house. And I will never be her again.“You want answers,” I say finally, my voice quiet but steady. “You deserve them.”Luca doesn’t respond. His ga

Luca Twenty years agoI was eight years old when I first learned that monsters didn’t live under the bed.They wore your father’s face.It was a winter evening, so cold the windows frosted around the edges. Mother had been gone for hours, and Alex was sitting on the floor by the fireplace, lining up his little wooden soldiers in neat rows.I remember thinking something felt off, though I didn’t have the words for it then. A tension in the air, the way the staff moved quietly, glancing over their shoulders as if expecting something to explode.And then the front door slammed.Alex startled, dropping one of his soldiers. I froze, listening to the heavy, uneven footfalls echoing down the hall.When Father appeared in the doorway, I knew instantly he was drunk. His eyes were glassy, his tie crooked. He carried the smell of expensive scotch and something darker rage, coiled tight beneath his skin.“Where is she?” he demanded.No one answered. The butler stood stiffly behind him, his face p