All Chapters of When the Don Buried His Wife: Chapter 1 - Chapter 8

My phone vibrated.That anonymous number had sent me another photo.I tapped the screen. The woman in it was Sofia Romano.She was wearing a clinging deep wine satin gown, the straps so thin they barely seemed to exist. Faint marks still stained the side of her neck and along her collarbone. She was half-reclined against a black leather sofa, and in the lower right corner of the frame, a man’s hand rested possessively on her knee.I recognized that hand instantly.The wedding band on his ring finger caught the light with a cold, merciless gleam. Kayson had designed those rings himself, then had them custom-made by a Swiss jeweler. I still remembered the way he had held my hand and told me there would never be another pair like them in the world, because anything he gave me was meant to be mine alone.Now the memory felt like a joke.He was wearing the ring that was supposed to mean forever, supposed to mean only me, while touching another woman.For one awful moment, I found myself won

I stopped responding to Sofia.She never got tired of it.Any time Kayson was with her, my phone would light up. A photo. A message. Some smug little reminder that while I still wore his name, she was the one getting his time, his attention, his hands on her body.I ignored every one of them.At that point, there was only one thing I cared about.Two more days.In two days, I would be gone.That afternoon, I took down the lacquered keepsake box from the back of my dressing room shelf.For years, I had kept everything in it.The handwritten cards Kayson used to leave for me. The black-and-white photo from the night we first met. The invitation from the gala where he publicly pursued me for the first time. A pressed white rose from the glass garden he built when he proposed. Even the silk ribbon from the box that had held my wedding veil.I had saved them all carefully, foolishly, like they were pieces of a future we would one day look back on together.Now they were only proof that I ha

“We’re pulling tower logs, flight records, maintenance, pilot logs—”“Call the recovery teams again,” I cut in. “I want real answers, not guesses.”Marco was already dialing before I finished.The drive to the coast felt endless and instant at the same time. By the time we arrived, the shoreline was already locked down. Search lights cut across the water. Recovery boats moved through the dark like knives.I got out before the car stopped.A man in rescue gear ran toward me. “Don.”“What do you have?”He glanced at Marco, then back at me. “We recovered debris from the aircraft.”“What about the passengers?”His face tightened. “There are no survivors.”For a moment, I thought I had heard him wrong.“What?”He lowered his voice. “The impact and fire were too severe. We found fragments of the fuselage, interior trim, burned luggage, and biological remains in the water. No one on board could have survived.”“No.” The word came out before I could stop it. “Keep searching.”“We are searching

By the time the private jet was taxiing toward the runway, I was already somewhere else.The Moretti family’s VIP passage made things easier. No crowds. No extra checks. No curious eyes. I walked through the private corridor the way I was supposed to, then slipped through a service door at the turn before boarding.A woman in airport staff uniform was waiting for me.She handed me a dark coat, a cap, and a staff badge. “You have three minutes.”“The car?”“South loading gate.”I changed right there, pulled the cap low, and took the badge.Before I left, she said quietly, “Once you walk out, Lucia Bellini is gone.”I looked at her once. “That’s the plan.”I went down the service hall without looking back.A white catering van was waiting at the loading gate. The driver stepped out when he saw me. He was broad-shouldered, in his forties, with an Italian accent he did not bother hiding.“Nico Varela,” he said.I got into the van. “Drive.”He shut the doors and pulled away.For the first t