Chapter 1
Aurora’s POV
The sexy lingerie clung to my skin; the mirror reflected my exposed, almost bursting breasts.
I shifted on the bed, adjusting the lingerie I’d spent three hours picking out at the boutique downtown.
The saleswoman had called it “a wearable love potion” and “battle armor that keeps a man in bed.”
I’d laughed, swiping the black card without hesitation.
Enzo and I just needed a spark to repair the distance that had crept between us these past few months.
Enzo ran a powerful crime family and was so busy I almost never saw him. The last time I’d slept with him was three months ago.
The candles flickered on the nightstand. I’d cooked his favorite meal — bistecca alla fiorentina, seared rare with rosemary, the way his mother used to make it in the old country before she passed.
There was a bottle of Barolo from his family’s private cellar breathing on the table, and tucked in the drawer beside me was a collection of toys I’d never had the courage to buy before.
Over these five years, as his Donna, I had developed a keen intuition.
A vague sense of unease filled my heart, but I still decided to trust him.
He’ll be home soon, I told myself.
He promised.
But eight o’clock came and went. Nine. Ten.
I checked my phone again.
No messages. No calls.
Just the same message I’d sent hours ago, still showing as “read” with no reply.
Happy anniversary, Enzo. I have a surprise for you. Come home early?
The steak had gone cold. The candles had burned down to stubs.
I was feeling extremely anxious inside.
To relieve this negative mood, I decided to look for a distraction. I opened Instagram and typed his name into the search bar.
His account was set to private.
Enzo valued his image as Don of the Crimson family, and he controlled every aspect of his public presence the way he controlled his territory.
But tonight, someone had tagged him in a post.
@Sophielove: The most magical birthday! Thank you for making my son’s dreams come true.
My thumb hovered over the screen. Don’t click it. Don’t—
I clicked.
The first photo showed a well-lit amusement park, the kind of place that gets rented out entirely, gates closed to the public, security in dark suits standing at every entrance.
The second showed fireworks exploding over a carousel. And the third—
My breath stopped.
Enzo stood in a kitchen, flour dusted across his black shirt, the camera focused on his face, revealing a smile, his deep eyes curving into a gentle arc, as a little boy with dark curls held up a mixing bowl.
I’d never seen Enzo like this before. Warm, peaceful, even adorable.
I’d seen him ruthlessly decisive amidst gunfire, but I’d never seen him with such a warm smile.
I struggled to shift my gaze. A woman stood beside them, her hand resting on Enzo’s arm with the easy familiarity of someone who had never been told the rules.
They were making a birthday cake together, like a family.
The caption read: My two favorite boys. Five years old and already ruling the world.
Five years old.
We’d been married for five.
My phone slipped from my fingers, clattering against the hardwood floor.
The sound echoed through the empty bedroom, through the empty house I’d spent years turning into a home.
No. No, this couldn’t be right.
Enzo was difficult, yes. Distant, often. Cold in the way men who order executions before breakfast learn to be.
But he wasn’t a cheater. He’d made me one vow at that altar, in front of both our families, in front of every capo on the East Coast.
He wasn’t the kind of man who would—
Call him, my instinct urged. There has to be an explanation.
I picked up my phone with trembling hands and dialed his number.
“Hello?”
The voice that answered wasn’t his.
It was soft, feminine, and a little breathless, like she’d been laughing.
“Hello?” she said again. “Enzo, I think someone’s calling you—oh, he just stepped out with Ethan. They’re doing the sparklers. Can I take a message?”
In the background, I heard a child’s voice. “Daddy, look! Look what I can do!”
Daddy. I froze.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
I couldn’t speak. The call ended. I didn’t know if I hung up or if she did.
It didn’t matter.
I walked downstairs like a ghost.
The dining room looked absurd: the crystal glasses, the cloth napkins folded into swans, the flowers I’d arranged just so.
I picked up the platter of steak and dumped it into the trash. Everything else followed.
Then I stood in the middle of the living room and looked at what I’d built.
The curtains were sage green, because Enzo once mentioned his childhood home in the old country had green curtains.
The ferns by the window were his favorite, even though I had to mist them twice daily to keep them alive in this climate.
The walls held framed oil paintings of the old family estate at dusk.
These were anniversary gifts I’d commissioned from artists he admired, back when I still believed anniversaries meant something to him.
Our wedding photo hung above the fireplace.
Enzo in his tailored black suit, me in white silk, our hands clasped on the cathedral steps as both families and their guests celebrated the union of two Mafia dynasties.
He wasn’t smiling in the picture. Enzo rarely smiled. But his eyes were soft, focused entirely on me.
I’d stared at that photo a thousand times, searching for proof that our arrangement had become something real. That he loved me.
Now it just looked like evidence of my own stupidity.
I didn’t know how long I sat in the dark bedroom, tears flowing and drying up again and again, until I heard the front door open, and a second later, he walked into the bedroom.
He was still in his business suit, though the jacket was gone and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing the family tattoo on his wrist.
His broad shoulders filled out his shirt, the holster strap cutting across his chest.
His hair was loosely and carelessly styled, and under the light, shadows fell across his sharply defined face.
As he walked in, he was as handsome as I remembered. Maybe even more. I caught the faintest trace of sugar and smoke clinging to his skin from birthday cake and fireworks.
“You’re still up,” he said, loosening his tie. “I thought you’d be asleep.”
“It’s our anniversary.”
He stopped short, like he’d just remembered. “I’m sorry, business ran late. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. We can go to that restaurant you like.”
A casual apology. After standing me up. As if I were an associate he’d kept waiting, not his wife.
He started toward the bathroom, then stopped again. He turned, and his eyes zeroed in on my body, noticing the lingerie.
His eyes were fixed on me, like a hunter fixing on moving prey. Intense desire swirled in his pupils.
“Is this my surprise?” He stepped closer, his hand reaching for my waist.
His movements were steady and powerful, allowing no room for refusal.
He kissed down my neck and a little moan escaped me before he brought his lips down on mine.
My brain flashed with images of him with his first love. Her hand on his arm. Flour on his shirt.
I flinched away.
Enzo froze. In five years of marriage, I’d never pulled away from him. Never rejected his touch. No one in this city rejected Enzo Thawthorne.
His eyes revealed displeasure. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Where were you tonight?”
“I told you. Business.”
“You weren’t handling business.”
His expression shuttered closed. This was the Don’s face, It was the cold mask he wore when he killed, revealing no emotion. “You’re being paranoid.”
“I tried to call you, but some woman picked up—” My throat closed around the word.
“You’re overreacting.” His voice turned cold, the voice that made grown men in his organization go pale. “Now come to bed and stop making this into something it isn’t.”
“I’m not—”
His phone rang. He answered without hesitation. Without even glancing at me.
“Sophie? Slow down. What happened?”
I watched his face transform. The coldness that belonged to the Don was replaced by an unusual tenderness.
In five years of marriage, I had never received such favor from him.
“It’s okay,” he murmured into the phone. “I’ll be right there. Just stay calm. You’re safe, no one touches you while you’re under my protection.”
He hung up and grabbed his jacket from the chair, checking the gun at his side out of pure habit.
“Enzo—”
“Go to sleep,” he said without looking at me. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
The door slammed behind him. A moment later, the engine of the Maybach roared out of the driveway.
He left. On our anniversary. For his first love.
The idea crushed me. My stomach twisted and I rushed into the bathroom. Bile surged up my throat, and I knelt over the toilet, choking as I vomited up what little I’d eaten today.
My eyes watered, my forehead pressed against the porcelain as the nausea clawed through me again.
Why am I throwing up?
Could I be…?
No. Impossible.
We’d used contraceptives last time. Besides, this felt like normal nausea from not eating… right?
