My Husband's Secret Mafia Bride

The weight of a Salvatore crown was never meant for delicate necks. It belonged to bloodlines that had spilled oceans to rule the eastern seaboard.

I stood on the marble balcony overlooking the sunken parlor of our private estate in Ridgefield, watching my husband of three years, Lorenzo Greco. In the dim light of the crystal chandelier, Lorenzo’s hand rested gently on the lower back of a young woman with dark, flowing hair. Her back was turned to me, but the stark bulge beneath her silk gown was unmissable.

She was heavily pregnant. Thirty-two weeks, by my estimation.

"It suits you, my love," Lorenzo whispered, his voice smooth as aged whiskey.

I watched in silent fury as he unclasped the Salvatore heirloom—a centuries-old crown encrusted with black diamonds—and fastened it around her throat. That crown belonged to my mother. It had been locked in the family vault beneath the cathedral in Manhattan, a vault to which only two living people held the biometrics: myself and the husband I had elevated from a low-level enforcer to Underboss.

My fingers tightened around the cool mahogany railing. For three years, I had believed Lorenzo was a dedicated partner. I had believed his tender assurances when the doctors told us I was infertile. Every morning, like clockwork, he had personally brought me a cup of fresh espresso, kissing my forehead and watching me drink every drop.

The pills.

The sudden realization struck me like a icy blade to the chest. The slight bitter lingering taste I had dismissed as dark roast. The subtle stomach cramps. The monthly hormone imbalances. He hadn't been taking care of me; he had been systematically chemicalizing my body to ensure I never bore a Salvatore heir, all while planting his own seed in another woman.

"Will your wife notice it’s missing from the vault?" the woman asked softly, turning her head.

My heart froze. Her face was strikingly familiar—the wide blue eyes, the arching dark brows. She looked like a younger, softer shadow of myself. Her name was Elena. She was an orphan from the southern territory, someone Lorenzo had brought into our secondary logistics firm two years ago.

"Alessia notices nothing," Lorenzo replied, brushing a thumb across Elena's cheek. "She lives in her father's memory and her stupid pride. The wires in the accounting offices have been cut for months. The offshore transfers to the Zurich account are complete. Once she signs over the port docks next week, her usefulness ends."

"And us?" Elena murmured, placing his hand over her distended belly.

"You are giving me the Greco heir," Lorenzo said, his voice laced with dark ambition. "The Salvatore empire will belong to my son. Alessia will meet with an unfortunate 'accident' long before the boy takes his first breath."

I pulled back into the shadows of the corridor, my chest heaving, but my tears did not fall. Panic was for the weak. Sorrow was for victims.

I walked down the private wing toward my study, lockpicking my husband's private desk drawer with the hairline hairpin from my hair. Deep inside, beneath dummy financial reports, lay the physical ledgers: wire transfers routed through illegal offshore shell companies, cut wire tapes from our security sector, and a small glass vial labeled with an unpronounceable chemical compound used for reproductive suppression.