The Don Got Me Pregnant and Chose Someone Else novel · Chapter 1 of 12
Chapter 1: The Rain
It was pouring down on Philadelphia the day Cesare Brandolini married someone else.
I was on the sidewalk across from St. Anthony's Church, under the awning of a closed bakery.
I was wearing a raincoat over the cream dress I'd bought for my own wedding.
My wedding was the following Saturday.
His was today.
The church doors were wide open.
From where I stood, I could see the altar, the candles, the white flowers.
And in the center, with his back to me, a tall man in a black tuxedo and another woman in white.
Dalila.
My stepsister.
Twenty-six years old, dyed blonde hair, a five-month belly the corset could no longer hide.
My father died when I was eighteen.
A year later, my mother married Arnaldo Marchetti, the head of finance for the Brandolini family.
Dalila came with him.
We grew up like sisters without being sisters, sharing tables, birthdays, and secrets.
I lent her my dresses, my room, and my tears.
This month, she took my fiancé.
An hour earlier, in the family's salon, Cesare had spoken in front of the twelve capos.
I wasn't there, but my aunt Rosaria told me every word over the phone, crying.
"According to Mafia rule," he'd said in a voice of stone, "only the woman who completes the marriage rite with me and receives the blessing of the whole family is my true wife."
"Nicoletta Ferraro was my fiancée. But Dalila Marchetti is carrying my child, and I will do my duty."
I was nothing more than a promise without a rite.
Dalila was the duty.
Inside the church, the priest raised his hands.
I watched them exchange rings.
Cesare slid a gold band onto Dalila's finger.
She laughed, hands on her belly, and he kissed her.
It was a short kiss, without love.
That didn't comfort me.
I'd kissed those lips for six months, in secret.
Meanwhile, I kept his family's books, ironed his shirts, and had his dinner ready.
Ever since I found out about Dalila, last month, I'd tried to tell him what I knew.
He didn't listen.
He told me we'd talk about it after the wedding.
After the wedding with her.
The rain ran down my face, and I couldn't tell how much was rain and how much wasn't.
I kept staring at the kiss until the church bell struck four.
I'd loved him for ten years.
Since I was eighteen, when he smiled at me for the first time at my father's funeral.
He was five years older than me and rougher than anyone, and he told me he'd take care of me.
I loved him when he became the Don and when he asked me to be his accountant.
I loved him when he put an opal ring on my finger and said we were forever.
And now I watched him marry someone else.
I brought my hand to my belly.
The gesture came on its own.
Ten days ago, I'd taken a test in the bathroom of a restaurant.
Two lines.
Eight weeks.
I'd planned to tell him tonight, after the family dinner, in a hotel suite overlooking the river.
I'd bought a pair of tiny white shoes and had them in my coat pocket.
Now I squeezed them with my wet fingers.
I hadn't told him.
I wasn't going to tell him.
A man who marries someone else in front of twelve capos doesn't deserve to know.
He doesn't deserve to be told he's going to have a child with the woman who ironed his shirts.
I took a breath.
I made a decision right there, under the awning, in the middle of the downpour.
I would let him go.
Not out of pride.
Because when a man chooses the other woman in front of everyone, there's nothing left to save.
I turned and walked down the sidewalk toward the taxi stand.
No one in the church saw me leave.
Except an old woman in black, sitting in the last row, a cane between her hands.
She turned her head at just the right moment and stared at me through the rain.
Nonna Assunta.
The Don's grandmother.
Her black eyes followed me until I turned the corner.
In the taxi, I rested my head against the window.
I took out my phone and wrote a short message to my lawyer.
"Prepare the notice of termination. And buy a one-way ticket."
Then I touched my belly again.
"It'll be just you and me," I whispered.
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