The Don’s Neglected Wife
The plane touched down in Tripoli at dusk.
Behind me, the sky was on fire. I pulled out my phone and typed a message to my husband, Don Vito Hart.
[I'm here. I came to bring you home.]
No reply.
I called his underboss, Enzo Stark. His voice was hesitant.
"You… you really went to Libya?"
An explosion rattled the terminal windows. My heart slammed against my ribs.
"Which district is he in?"
A long pause. Then, quieter:
"He never left the country."
His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "The business trip… it was a lie."
The line went dead. A photo appeared on my screen. Time-stamped today.
Vito was smiling. Bright, but something behind his eyes looked tired. His arm was wrapped around a woman. They were blowing out candles on a birthday cake.
I recognized her instantly.
Rosa Quinn.
The woman he'd knelt and sworn on his mother's grave never to see again. Three years ago. I still had the scar on my own palm where I'd made him swear.
Vito had forgotten. Today was my birthday too.
My phone buzzed again.
"Sera, the truth is—the Don never ended things with Rosa. We all knew. But you two seemed so happy… no one dared tell you."
I read the message twice. Then I slipped the phone into my pocket.
There was no need to pretend anymore.