The Don's Wife Died With His Secret Heir novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Locked Door

Santo comes to her room, refuses to send his mistress away, and kisses her; she ends it with a taunt. Mauro texts the plan.

Santo came up after midnight, and he used his own key.

I was sitting in the armchair by the window with my coat on and my shoes beside me.

I had packed nothing, because a packed bag would have told the guards what I was planning.

He shut the door behind him and stood there with his jacket open and his tie gone.

"The families left an hour ago," he said. "Ottavio told them you were unwell."

"I'm not unwell."

"I know."

He crossed the room and stopped an arm's length from my chair.

"Ask me what you want to ask," Santo said. "I'll answer."

"How long?"

"Three years and some months."

"You've been paying for her flat that whole time."

"Federal Hill. Yes."

I had wanted him to lie, so that I could be angry about the lie.

"Did you love her?"

"No."

"Then why?"

His face did not change, but he looked at the carpet.

"It was one night, the winter after we married. I'd been drinking since noon, because my father's anniversary was that week. I don't remember all of it."

"That's your defense?"

"It's not a defense. It's what happened."

"And when she told you she was pregnant, you decided I didn't need to know."

"I decided you would leave."

"You were right," I said.

He flinched, and I was glad.

"I'm not sending her away, Alessia. The boy is mine, and my son doesn't live in a rented flat while the rest of this family lives in a house with guards."

"Your son."

"Yes."

"You looked at Ottavio before you told me that. In front of everyone."

"Ottavio has been in my ear since before I could walk." Santo said it flatly, as a fact. "He took a knife in the face for my father in nineteen ninety-eight, and the scar's still on his ear. I trust him, and I looked to him because he's the man I look to."

"I'm the woman you married."

He did not have an answer for that.

I stood up, because I couldn't talk to him from a chair.

He was close enough then that I could smell the wine and the cold air that was still in his coat.

"Say it," I said. "Say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry the way you found out."

"That's not the same sentence."

"It's the one I have."

I turned away to the door, because I needed my hand on something. I put my palm flat against the wood.

He came up behind me and set his own hand next to mine above my head.

I could feel the heat of him down my back.

"Stay," Santo said into my hair. "Tomorrow we'll fix it. Whatever you want."

"I want her gone."

"Anything but that."

I turned around, and his mouth was right there.

I had meant to push him away.

Instead I took his face in both hands and kissed him, hard, with four years of it behind me.

He made a sound in his throat and pulled me against the door, and his hands went into my hair, and for a few seconds I forgot the dining room.

I had my fingers in his shirt, and I was still angry, and that was the worst part.

Then my stomach turned over, a small sick lurch that had nothing to do with him.

It was the baby.

I broke the kiss and put my hand on his chest and held him off.

"Go back downstairs," I said, breathing hard. "Your other table is getting cold."

He stared at me.

Then he laughed once, with no pleasure in it, and took his hand off the door.

"There she is," he said.

At the door he turned back.

"Nadia and the boy move into the east wing on Monday. Ottavio is arranging it."

"Into this house."

"Where I can protect them."

"And me?"

"You're my wife. Nothing changes for you."

He went out, and I heard the key turn on the other side.

A minute later I heard a chair scrape in the hall, and a guard clear his throat.

I sat down on the floor with my back against the door and put both hands over my stomach.

He had not asked why my face was gray.

He had not asked why I'd gone to the bathroom twice at dinner and not come back for the soup.

My phone buzzed in the coat pocket.

It was Mauro, and he had written only the plan.

Thursday. Cliff Road. Five o'clock. Take the black Mercedes. Don't pack anything.

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