The Don’s Other Woman Was His Real Wife
I listened until he finished, and then I poured him a cup of the dark, bitter espresso he’d once loved, and pushed it across the counter.
“I’m not Isabella anymore,” I said, quiet and steady.
“That girl died the night you walked away from me, bleeding on a marble floor, to carry Sofia out of that banquet hall. She died when I heard you order a fake marriage license to keep me quiet. She’s gone.”
I told him about my life here: the regulars who brought me fresh fruit every morning, the dance class I took on weekends, the quiet, safe life I’d built for myself, the first one that had ever been mine alone.
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