Too Late To Love Your Drowned Wife

I gave up my champion swimming career and my pride to be the loyal wife of the most ruthless Don in the American Cosa Nostra.

But when his runaway mistress faked drowning in our estate pool, my husband didn't see me trying to save her.

He hauled her from the water, swaddling her in a thick towel, and stood over me as I bled on the hot flagstones.

To break my pride, he dragged me up ten flights of stairs by my wet hair.

"Please, she jumped!" I begged.

But he just stared at me with cold loathing and shoved me into the freezing rooftop water tank.

I fought desperately for my life, but he stood at the edge like carved granite, stomping on my hands until my bones cracked and my lungs burned for oxygen.

The last thing I saw before I sank to my watery grave was my husband walking away to comfort the woman who framed me.

I had spent eight long years cleaning up his messes and playing the perfect Mafia Queen.

Why did my absolute devotion only buy my brutal execution?

Now, trapped as a ghost in our penthouse, I watched him trail kisses down her neck while my rotting body tainted his tap water.

But as he desperately tried to destroy the security footage of my murder, a cold fire burned in my hollow chest.

Even in death, I was going to tear his empire apart.

Chapter 1

Siena POV

I watched my husband, the most ruthless Don of the American Cosa Nostra, trail open-mouth kisses down his mistress's neck while my body, in its slow decay, turned in the currents of the water tank directly above their penthouse ceiling.

This was my reality now.

I was a shade, a presence bound to the very spot where the man I loved had extinguished my life. I tried to trace the outline of the chesterfield sofa, but my fingers passed through the oiled leather, finding no texture, no warmth. Even the memory of a pulse had been hollowed out.

Leonardo was a monster to the rest of the world. He commanded an army of syndicate soldiers, signing death warrants over his morning espresso and rinsing the scent of cordite from his cuticles before dinner. But to me, he was supposed to be my protector.

I was the Underboss's daughter-a champion swimmer who had locked her medals away in a basement vault and cinched her waist into the stiff bones of a corseted gown, all to better suit his station.

I gave him my absolute devotion.

He gave me a watery grave.

Right now, Leonardo was pressing Francesca against the expensive leather sofa in his secure safehouse. His hands roamed over her delicate curves.

Francesca let out a soft giggle, her fingers hooking into the broad cloth of his shoulders.

I lingered in the corner of the room, a pocket of dead air where feeling was a forgotten language.

Three days ago, I had been alive.

Three days ago, Francesca had stood by the edge of the estate pool. She had looked me dead in the eye and her lips had parted in a smile of profound wickedness before she threw herself backward into the deep end.

She flailed her arms, screaming that she could not swim.

I dove in to save her.

Leonardo arrived just as I grabbed her arm. He did not see a rescue; he saw his lawful wife trying to drown his untouchable queen.

He hauled Francesca from the water, swaddling her in a thick towel. Then he stood over me as I bled onto the hot flagstones, his shadow falling across my body. He commanded me to apologize to his mistress before the assembled estate guards. When I refused, his eyes-dark and violent-fixed upon me. A fist closed in my wet hair, and he began to drag me up ten flights of stairs, each step an agony of metal and concrete.

The heavy metal lid of the water tank was already open.

I begged him to listen to me, the words catching in my throat like sobs, insisting that she had jumped.

Leonardo just stared at me with an expression of cold loathing before he shoved me backward over the edge.

The water was freezing. I was a strong swimmer, but the brutal climb had stolen the strength from my limbs. I tried to pull myself up over the rusty rim.

Leonardo raised his custom leather shoe and brought his heel down square in my chest.

I fell back into the dark water, a mouthful of the frigid liquid burning my throat.

I swam up again, my lungs screaming for air.

The first kick struck the back of my hand; I heard the muffled crack of a knuckle-bone giving way. The second, a hard-toed dress shoe, stamped my cheek, sending a constellation of white light across my vision.

He stood at the edge like a figure carved from granite and watched me fight for my life.

My legs cramped. My muscles seized. My lungs burned with a desperate, agonizing need for oxygen.

The last thing I saw before I sank toward the rusty drain at the bottom of the tank was my husband walking away.

Now, I watched him kiss the woman who had framed me.

Leonardo's encrypted burner phone buzzed on the glass coffee table, a sound like a rusty saw cutting through the heavy air.

He pulled away from Francesca with a heavy sigh and picked up the device.

I drifted closer.

It was Enzo, Leonardo's Consigliere.

Leonardo put the phone to his ear, his jaw tight.

"Boss, we have a problem at the estate," Enzo said. "The capos are complaining in the group chat. The tap water smells like rotting meat."

Leonardo rolled his eyes. "Tell maintenance to flush the pipes. Do not bother me with this garbage."

Enzo paused. "Boss. Siena has been missing for three days. No one has seen your wife."

Leonardo's expression hardened, his eyes becoming flat and lifeless, like discs of polished jet.

"She is not a priority right now," Leonardo snapped.

He hung up the phone and tossed it back onto the table.

Francesca traced her manicured finger down his chest, looking up at him through thick eyelashes.

"Is everything okay, Leo?" she asked softly. "Is it about Siena? I am so worried about her."

Leonardo scoffed, pulling Francesca into his lap.

"Do not waste your tears on that bitch," he said. "She got exactly what she deserved. I made sure she will never touch you again."

Francesca buried her face in his neck. Her shoulders, hidden from his view, gave a slight, triumphant tremor.

Upstairs, the water in the tank sloshed against the metal walls, thick with the smell of my own rotting flesh.

*I stared at the ceiling, and in the hollow where my heart used to beat, a cold pressure began to build—silent, patient, and gathering weight with every passing hour. *