Faking My Death for the Mafia Don

I was married to Vincent Rossi, the most feared Mafia Don on the East Coast. Two years ago, I secretly donated my bone marrow to save his life after a rival hit.

But his mistress, Sophia, stole my medical records and claimed the credit as his savior. She even announced she was carrying his heir.

Vincent believed her completely. When I brought him homemade broth at the clinic, he struck me to the floor in front of his armed guards.

"A Don does not wait. Least of all for a wife who fails to observe a simple schedule."

Later, Sophia deliberately threw herself against a glass table, faked a bloody miscarriage, and pointed her finger at me.

Vincent didn't even check the security footage before slapping me across the face and letting Sophia put a massive underworld bounty on my head.

I had sacrificed my health and youth for a man who didn't hesitate to let the entire city hunt me down like a traitor.

He protected a lying viper while destroying the only woman who ever truly bled for him.

So, I set up a dead-man's switch to expose Sophia's fake pregnancy and her affairs with rival soldiers to the entire Commission.

Then, I faked my own brutal death by throwing myself off a cliff right in front of his eyes.

Let the mighty Don weep over my casket and drown in his regrets, because I am leaving this hell to live for myself.

Chapter 1

Nora Bianchi POV

The sterile scent of the hospital corridor was cut by a ribbon of cigar smoke that escaped from the door seam. I stopped, my hand tightening on a thermos whose metal shell radiated a faint, savory warmth.

"If she doesn't surrender her title by midnight," the voice was Vincent's, yet it had a flat, final quality I did not recognize, "Sophia will erase her existence from the Rossi Family."

Vincent Rossi was not just a husband.

He was the Don of the Rossi Syndicate.

His control over the East Coast underworld was a thing of brutal legend, a dominion held by iron will and violence.

His name alone made grown men tremble.

Eight years had passed since he pulled me from a crossfire, an act of protection that became a chain, binding me in a debt I thought eternal.

My loyalty had been the currency of that debt. My youth, the collateral.

Two years ago, when a rival hit nearly claimed him, I had offered up my own bone marrow.

The underground procedure left my health in ruins, a permanent, internal wreckage that rendered me barren.

I did it in secret because the Syndicate viewed weakness as an invitation for death.

But Sophia Marino found out.

She stole the medical records, swapped her name for mine, and presented herself as the Don's savior.

Now, she was carrying the heir I could never give him.

My own breath was a stranger in my lungs, slow and unsteady. I forced a mask of calm onto my face. The brass handle of the door felt cold, and as I pushed, the wood groaned under its own weight. A blade of sterile corridor light sliced into the room's dim interior.

The air inside was thick, motionless.

Vincent occupied the center of a plush leather sofa, and curled against him was Sophia, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder.

His hand, a thing of lethal repute, rested with unsettling gentleness on her slightly rounded belly.

Along the walls, a silent company of his Capos and armed men formed a human bulwark.

Their casual expressions hardened the instant they saw me.

Their eyes held a cold, dismissive weight.

A low murmur came from one of the men-"Street rat"-the words barely disturbing the air.

Another's gaze fell to the thermos in my hands, and a coarse laugh broke the tension.

"Did the little housewife lose her way to the kitchen?"

In their violent world of blood and power, my domestic gesture was pathetic.

I ignored them and kept my eyes on Vincent.

He did not look at me with love. He looked at me as one might study a piece of paperwork that required a final, unpleasant signature.

I walked closer, the thermos's stainless-steel shell digging into the bones of my palm, and I could hear the faint sloshing of the broth inside, a liquid tremor that mirrored my own.

"Vincent," my voice was a thread of sound, "I brought the broth you like."

His motion was a blur. It was not the flat of his hand that struck me, but the hard ridge of his knuckles, his signet ring catching the light just before it connected with my cheekbone. The impact sent a shockwave through my skull, and my balance gave way. I fell, not with a crash, but a clumsy collapse onto the sterile tiles. The thermos did not shatter; it landed with a heavy, metallic clang, the lid popping off and a tide of warm chicken broth spilling across the floor.

A searing heat bloomed across my cheek, and a high, thin ringing began to sing in my left ear. The warm broth seeped into the fabric of my jeans, a pathetic, spreading stain. Above me, Vincent's shadow fell like a shroud. The muscles in his jaw were corded, and his perfectly tailored suit seemed to contain a terrible, vibrating stillness.

"You are fifteen minutes late," his voice was low, each word precisely and coldly articulated.

"A Don does not wait. Not for anyone. Least of all a wife who fails to observe a simple schedule."

His words were not for me, but for the gallery of armed men, a performance of dominance. He was demonstrating to Sophia how easily I could be discarded.

I remained on the floor, the cooling liquid a second skin against my leg.

My gaze swept the room, meeting only hard, impassive faces.

Not a single Soldier stepped forward to help me up.

They simply watched. And in that cold silence, I made a decision: they would all regret the day they left me bleeding on this floor. Because I had a secret that would burn their empire to the ground.