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On our third anniversary, I activated my plan to fake my own death. At dinner, he told his men in Italian: "She's so obedient, she won't cause trouble." He never knew I understood every single word. As the mafia don's "trophy wife," I had long discovered his mistress and the high heel she deliberately left in my home. I refused to endure it any longer. Ten days from now, only the gun he custom-made for me and a pool of blood will remain on the seaside cliff. Don, those ninety-nine times you said you loved me—I don't want them anymore. …… I was standing in the corridor outside the private dining room when I dialed the number. "Project Ash. Initiate now." The male voice on the other end was calm and steady. "Received. The faked-death protocol is ready to go. In ten days, you'll vanish from everyone's world." I ended the call, pried out the SIM card, and dropped it into the wastebasket beside the wall. From inside the room came a roar of laughter—familiar enough to turn my stomach. That was Dante Moretti. My husband. The godfather of the most powerful mafia family on the East Coast, surrounded by his loyal and oblivious men. Tonight was our third wedding anniversary. He had rented out the entire restaurant. The most expensive champagne. The most dishonest smiles. A performance called love, staged entirely for my benefit. I pushed open the door and walked in, wearing the same smile I always wore. "Finished your call?" Dante sat at the head of the long table and reached out to me. I crossed the room and placed my hand in his. He pulled me into his lap in one smooth motion, one arm circling my waist—tender and practiced, the kind of gesture that now made me want to be sick. "All done. The cleaning service confirmed they'll send someone to the apartment tomorrow." Dante nodded and turned back to his underboss, resuming a conversation in Italian. Fast, clipped, thick with a Sicilian accent—the private language of his bloodline, and the wall they'd always used to keep me out. I smiled along and took a sip of wine. I had taught myself Italian over the past three years. Dante didn't know that. He thought I only spoke English. His men thought so too. "So Scarlett's back in New York tomorrow?" That was Dante's cousin, Luca—second in command. Another man, Cesare, grinned. "Already here. Dante's headed over tonight." "Can't blame the boss. Keeps a respectable one at home, keeps an exciting one on the side." "Keep it down—his wife's right there." Cesare turned to me, switching to English, his eyes testing the water. "Vivian, good wine?" I smiled and nodded, my gaze perfectly clear. "Very good." They exchanged a look and cut back to Italian. She can't understand a word. Relax. Dante, you're really not going to tell her? What if she finds out— Dante finally spoke, his tone easy and indifferent: What is there to find out? She's mine. She'll always be mine. I need her where she needs to be, doing what she's supposed to do. The rest of it has nothing to do with her. I felt his hand give my waist a light, absentminded pat—the way you'd soothe a pet. Besides, he continued in Italian, she's so well-behaved. She won't make trouble. Low laughter rippled around the table. I looked down at the dark red liquid in my glass. Three years of marriage, and they had always looked at me that way. Pity threaded through contempt. I was the godfather's wife and had no real power. I was his companion and nothing more than a prop. What they didn't know was that the most dangerous hunter is the one who looks the most harmless. I set my glass down and stood up from Dante's lap. "Tired?" He looked up at me. "Mm. I'll head home." "I'll have someone drive you." "No need. I'll call a car." I picked up my bag and walked toward the door. As I pulled it open, I heard someone say one last thing in Italian behind me: Don't worry. She doesn't know a thing. I let the door close behind me. I knew everything. I knew who Scarlett was. I knew that woman had been living in the apartment Dante bought her for the past month. I knew the entire family had been laughing behind my back, calling me a fool who couldn't see what was in front of her. But I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't rage. I wouldn't ask him a single question. Ten days from now, they would all believe I was dead. And Dante Moretti would spend the rest of his life remembering every word he said tonight.
