The Mafia Boss Asked His Wife to Tell His Mistress Their Marriage Was Already Over—But She Refused to Give Him the One Lie He Needed

The photograph was slightly faded, taken with an old Polaroid camera.

It showed a much younger Gabriel. He was smiling, his arm wrapped tightly around the waist of a beautiful young woman with bright red hair.

Isabel. But she looked barely twenty.

And standing next to them, holding a baby, was Michael.

The date stamped on the bottom corner of the Polaroid read: August 14, 2011.

Fifteen years ago. Not two.

Gabriel had known Isabel fifteen years ago. Before Michael died.

I looked closely at the baby in Michael’s arms. He had tufts of dark hair and was wrapped in a blue blanket.

I turned the photograph over.

On the back, in Gabriel’s handwriting: Me, Izzy, Michael, and little Gabriel.

Little Gabriel.

My chest tightened until I couldn't breathe.

Gabriel hadn't met Isabel two years ago. He had known her for decades. And the baby in the picture...

I didn't have a son. I only had Elena. We had tried for years to have another child, but I had suffered three miscarriages. Gabriel had told me it didn't matter. He had told me I was enough.

Isabel hadn't just been his mistress. She had given him the son I couldn't.

And Michael had known. Michael had posed for a picture with his brother’s secret family.

I put the photograph down. The betrayal was so profound, so meticulously layered, that I didn't feel anger anymore. I felt ice in my veins.

"You didn't protect Michael’s memory," I whispered to the empty room. "Michael found out. Michael was going to tell me."

That was why Michael was dead.

He hadn't been a rat. He hadn't sold Gabriel out to the Rossi family. He had just threatened to tell me the truth about the woman who belonged to the Rossi family.

Gabriel had ordered his own brother’s death to protect his secret son.

And now, fifteen years later, the feds were closing in, and Gabriel was finally cashing out to run away with the family he truly wanted.

I methodically placed the photograph, the passports, and the ticket back into the lockbox. I kept my grandmother’s diamond bracelet. I slipped it onto my wrist.

I locked the box, returned it to the shelf, and wiped down the desk.

I walked downstairs to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. I sat at the table and watched the sun come up over the garden I had planted with my own hands.

Gabriel thought I was going to wear a blue dress tonight and cry into my wine glass. He thought I was going to surrender my father’s empire because I was too heartbroken to fight.

He had forgotten one very important detail.

I was my father’s daughter. Before I was a DeLuca, I was a Falcone.

At 7:00 AM, my cell phone rang.

It was Elena. "Mom? Are you awake?"

"I am," I said, sipping my coffee.

"Dad just called. He said the dinner is moved. We aren't going to the restaurant."

I frowned. "Where are we going?"

"He rented out the private dining room at the Grand Hotel. He said he wanted it to be more intimate. Mom... his lawyer is coming."

I closed my eyes. The hotel was closer to the airport.

"Elena," I said smoothly. "Listen to me very carefully. Go to your son’s room. Look inside his toy box. You are going to find a heavy silver rosary."