Chapter 1

I was the most cherished lover of Salvatore Ricci, the formidable head of the infamous Ricci crime family—Italy's oldest and most notoriously brutal Mafia dynasty dating back five generations.

For three years we were together. I loved him more than life itself, standing by his side through countless dangers.

Everyone in the crime family called me "Madrina," certain I would eventually wear his ring.

Until the day his first love returned, hunted by rivals. He pushed me aside and took a bullet meant for her.

What he didn't know was that I was pregnant.

That day, I was struck in the abdomen. I miscarried, hemorrhaging severely.

This man, usually so cold and calculating, completely broke down.

He knelt beside me, cradling my body, begging me not to die.

He told me he loved me.

But I didn't love him anymore.

The man who truly held my heart was Daniel Reed—the very officer leading the task force to bring down my Mafia lover.

Five years earlier, the day before our wedding...

That man died—by Salvatore's own gun.

In my third year as Salvatore Ricci's lover, he told me he wanted to marry me.

One night after dinner in his penthouse overlooking Milan, I asked him why. He was smoking by the window, silhouette cut sharp against the city lights. He turned, those cold eyes suddenly soft.

"Because you're good for me, bella," he said, taking my chin between his fingers. "You don't ask questions when I come home with blood on my cuffs. You understand this life." He paused, thumb tracing my lower lip. "And when you look down just like that—Cristo—you remind me of someone I once knew."

I knew my place in his world. I wasn't his love—I was his echo, a ghost wearing another woman's face. In the hierarchy of his heart, I would always rank second to a memory.

On nights when ghosts of his past haunted him, he would drink too much whiskey and drag me to bed. His hands would grip my wrists above my head, his body claiming mine with desperate hunger. The sex was brutal, possessive—never gentle.

"Cry for me," he would command, voice rough as he moved against me. "Let me see those tears,carina."

And I would obey, because when my face flushed and tears streamed down my cheeks, his eyes would glaze over. In those moments, I ceased to exist.

At his most unguarded, in the throes of passion, he would sometimes whisper, "Carina, Carina, Carina," as he shuddered against me.

I thought it was a term of endearment—"my dear one," a rare moment of tenderness. For months, those whispers were precious to me, proof that perhaps he did care.

Yet there were other gestures that confused me, made me wonder if perhaps he truly did care. He would leave his gun on the nightstand and make espresso just how I liked it. When winter came, he draped his jacket over my shoulders without a word. During business meetings in the back rooms of restaurants, his hand would rest possessively on my thigh beneath the table—a silent claim of ownership.

When I was sick, he personally drove me to the doctor instead of sending one of his men. Once, when I cut my hand on broken glass, he wrapped it himself, cursing under his breath in Sicilian the entire time.

The family treated me with deference. Old women kissed my cheeks at Sunday dinners. His consigliere would stand when I entered rooms. They called me "Signora Ricci" long before a ring touched my finger.

For eighteen months, I was untouchable in Milan's northern district. Store owners refused my money. No man dared look at me twice. I began to believe the lie—that perhaps he did love me, in his way. That we could build something real from this shadow play.

Until fate delivered its cruelest joke.

Until fate delivered its cruelest joke.

Two weeks before our wedding, the real Carina was back.

"Carina," he breathed, and the way he said it shattered my world.

Carina Bianchi. Not a term of endearment whispered in the dark, but a woman of flesh and blood—the ghost made real.

That same morning, I had sat alone in my bathroom, staring at the pregnancy test with two unmistakable lines.

No goodbye.

No explanation.

Nothing but silence as I was erased from the family I thought would become mine.

The Salvatore Ricci who had almost made me his wife disappeared the moment his first love returned.

Chapter 2

The night I encountered Carina was at Salvatore's private club in downtown Milan.

Word had spread that her father had gambled away their family fortune, leaving Carina desperate to pay off his debts. She entered our private room with several other women hired for the evening's entertainment. The moment she saw Salvatore, she froze, immediately lowering her head.

Carina clearly didn't want Salvatore to recognize her, but someone pushed her forward, forcing her to sit directly beside him. Salvatore had his eyes closed, cigarette dangling from his lips as he leaned against me.

"Keep your fucking distance," he muttered irritably. "Anyone who upsets my future wife, I'll gut them myself."

The other women cooed, envying how fiercely Salvatore protected me. I noticed Carina's hands balled into fists, gripping her dress tightly as she shot me a sidelong glance filled with jealousy and resentment.

Suddenly, one of the women grabbed Carina's arm. "Carina! The gentlemen want a striptease—you're the best dancer. Get up there!"

At the sound of her name, the room fell silent.

Salvatore's eyes snapped open. His grip on my hand tightened viciously, sending pain shooting through my fingers.

Mortified, Carina trembled as she tried to leave, but Salvatore caught her wrist, roughly forcing her back down.

In the next instant, his hand was around her throat, pulling her face close to his. "Carina," he snarled, "didn't I tell you I'd fucking kill you if I ever saw you again?"

Everyone knew Carina was Salvatore's first love.

Everyone knew how ugly their breakup had been.

During the height of Salvatore's devotion to her, Carina had slept with another man after an argument. That year, Salvatore had drunk himself into oblivion every night, eventually suffering a gastric hemorrhage that nearly killed him.

After that, he never mentioned her name again.

Everyone assumed he hated her to his core.

Someone in the group started taunting Carina: "Where's your man now? Can't support you, so you're out here selling yourself to pay his bills, huh?"

The comment was vicious. I frowned and shot the speaker a cold stare, immediately silencing their laughter.

I tugged gently at Salvatore's sleeve. "A young woman trying to support her family deserves respect, not humiliation. Let her go, please?"

He turned to me, his eyes glacial. "What happens between her and me is none of your concern."

I froze, slowly releasing his arm.

Carina smirked, a new contempt entering her gaze as she watched me retreat. She reached up, caressing Salvatore's cheek with surprising tenderness.

"Salvatore," she whispered, "don't marry someone you don't love just because you miss me. It breaks my heart."

She bit her lip as tears spilled down her face, dropping onto Salvatore's hand where it still held her.

"Salvatore, I've wanted to tell you for so long... that night you found me in bed with him..." Her voice faltered. "He drugged me."

Salvatore's brow furrowed sharply. His grip on her loosened, the rage evaporating from his expression.

Carina fell against his chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

Salvatore made no move to push her away.

The truth was, Carina's claim could never be verified. The man in question had long since disappeared after Salvatore's particular brand of vengeance had left him wishing for death.

But Salvatore didn't care about proof. He simply forgave her, just like that.

In front of everyone—in front of me—he stroked her hair and murmured, "Don't cry, cara. I'll take you home."

I overheard someone whisper, "So Salvatore's reconciled with Carina. What happens to his fiancée now?"

"What do you think? The crown jewel has returned—the replacement gets discarded."

Salvatore heard this too.

He said nothing.

Once, he had cherished me, never allowing anyone to speak ill of me.

But now, the woman he truly wanted to protect had returned.

And I no longer mattered.

Chapter 3

That night, Salvatore brought Carina back to our villa.

I walked several paces behind them, watching as Salvatore's hand rested possessively on the small of her back—the same gesture he'd used with me countless times before. Before entering, Carina turned, her eyes meeting mine with calculated innocence.

She laced her fingers through Salvatore's and smiled sweetly. "Salvatore, caro, perhaps your... friend... should wait until morning to leave? It's late, and these streets aren't kind to women alone."

How thoughtful—the bitch was eager to see me gone, but concerned for my safety.

I maintained my smile as I reached beneath my blazer and drew my Beretta. In one fluid motion, I pressed the cold barrel against her temple, the safety clicking off with a sound that echoed in the midnight silence.

"Listen carefully," I said, my voice carrying the same dangerous calm I'd learned from years at Salvatore's side. "The only person who decides when I leave is me. And right now, I decide you don't fucking speak unless spoken to."

Carina's face drained of color as her eyes darted desperately to Salvatore.

He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply before blowing smoke toward the night sky. A smile played at the corner of his mouth as he pushed my gun down with two fingers.

"I taught you better than this, bella," he said, voice laced with amusement rather than anger. "That weapon is for your enemies, not for theatrics in my presence."

He tousled my hair like I was a child. "Come inside."

He led Carina through the door, leaving me alone on the marble steps of what had been our home. I stood there, the night air chilling the hot tears that threatened to fall.

I should have walked away that night.

But I couldn't.

I had my own reasons for needing Salvatore Ricci as my husband. Reasons that had nothing to do with love—not anymore.

I stood at the entrance long enough to compose myself, then walked inside with my head high.

What I found in the living room made my blood freeze. Carina had changed clothes—into my silk nightgown, the one Salvatore had brought back from Paris. It hung perfectly on her frame, as if it had been made for her rather than me.

She approached with a false smile. "I'm sorry about earlier," she said, voice saccharine sweet. Then, when Salvatore stepped into the kitchen, her expression hardened.

"Let's be clear," she whispered, all pretense gone. "I know exactly what you are—a cheap replacement he settled for. You kept his bed warm while I was gone. Your job is finished."

She gestured casually around the penthouse. "Salvatore mentioned you once saved his life. How touching. We'll find you a nice little apartment somewhere. You can visit on holidays—like a distant cousin."

She pointed to a small room off the hallway. "You can sleep there tonight. Unless you'd prefer the servant's quarters?"

I laughed then—a cold, hollow sound that made her flinch.

Without warning, I slapped her with enough force to snap her head sideways, the crack of it loud enough to echo.

"Know your place, puttana," I snarled, using the same tone I'd heard Salvatore use with men who disrespected him. "You spread your legs for another man and disappeared for years. Now you think you run this house? Touch my things again, and I'll carve my initials into that pretty face."

I pushed past her stunned form and walked directly to the master bedroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

Midnight came and went. I sat by the window, staring at the Milan skyline, still dressed, still seething. The door opened without a knock.

"Come to defend your resurrected saint?" I asked without turning.

Salvatore said nothing. He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed me by the throat, and pulled me to my feet. His grip was firm but not painful—a show of dominance, not punishment.

I glared at him, fury burning behind my eyes. "I'm not your fucking dog," I hissed. "I won't be ordered around by your whore."

To my surprise, he laughed—a genuine, throaty chuckle. His grip softened as he traced my jawline with his thumb.

"Three years," he murmured, "and you still surprise me."

He lowered his mouth to mine, and I tasted whiskey on his lips. I wanted to resist, to push him away, to maintain some dignity—but my body betrayed me as it always did.

Instead, I bit down hard on his lower lip, drawing blood.

He growled against my mouth, pressing me against the wall. His hands were everywhere, tearing at clothes, leaving marks that would bloom purple by morning. I matched his violence with my own, raking nails down his back, drawing blood for blood.

"This changes nothing," I gasped as he lifted me, wrapping my legs around his waist.

"Shut up," he commanded, his voice rough with desire.

As he drove me to the edge, my mind clouded with pleasure against my will, he whispered in my ear, his voice deceptively gentle.

"Apologize to Carina tomorrow," he murmured, slowing his movements when I was seconds from release. "I don't like her upset. Makes her eyes red. Not a good look."

I tried to move against him, desperate for completion, but he held me still.

"Be a good girl, cara mia," he continued, his lips brushing my ear. "While I'm still in a generous mood. I'd hate to have to teach you your place more... permanently."

His threat hung between us, velvet-wrapped steel.

I laughed bitterly, tears stinging my eyes. After a long moment, I nodded.

"Fine," I whispered.

Only then did he allow us both release—my surrender the price of my pleasure.