The Don's Pregnant Wife Ran to His Enemy novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Papers on the Counter
Elena signs her divorce papers while Gia sleeps in Sandro's shirt, leaves her ring on them, and runs for New York. At Union Station Dario hands her a phone: Raf Montano says do not board.
I signed my divorce papers at dawn while another woman slept in my bed.
She was wearing my husband's white shirt.
His arm lay across her waist.
I was six weeks pregnant with the Pagano heir.
In our world, a Don's wife does not walk out.
She gets carried out.
I stood in the bedroom doorway and waited to shake, or scream, or drag Gia Crespi out of those silk sheets by her blonde hair.
None of it came.
Sandro Pagano, my husband of three years, who warmed my coat on the radiator every winter morning, slept with his mouth slightly open.
Gia lay curled against his chest.
She opened one eye and found me in the doorway.
She smiled.
Then she laid one finger across her lips.
Shh.
Sandro did not stir.
I walked back down the hall to the kitchen.
The papers sat on the marble island where I had found them the night before, in his study, drafted by the family lawyer.
My name was typed at the top.
His signature line was still empty.
He had meant to throw me out this week.
I decided to spare him the trouble.
The lawyer had marked the signature page with a yellow tab.
I signed where the tab was and did not turn to the other pages.
Then I set the folded pages on the counter next to the breakfast I had made Sandro an hour earlier.
Espresso. Fresh cornetti. His mother's apricot jam, the one jar I had learned to make from her recipe card.
The cup was still warm.
I slid my wedding ring off and put it on top of the papers.
I left the diamonds he had given me.
I left the furs and the car keys.
I took one suitcase, my mother's rosary, and a small box wrapped in gold paper that I had been saving for tonight.
Inside the box was a pair of knitted white baby booties.
I had planned to give them to him over dinner.
Now he would never know.
I shut the penthouse door softly behind me.
That was how I had done everything in that marriage. Quietly. Carefully. Without waking anyone.
The January wind off Lake Michigan went through my coat.
I pressed a hand to my stomach.
It was still flat, but not for long.
My father was consigliere to the Pagano family for twenty years.
He taught me one rule before he died.
Nobody walks away from the family. Not soldiers. Not wives.
Least of all a wife carrying the next Don.
If Sandro's enemies learned about the baby, they would use it.
If Sandro learned about it, he would keep it.
I pulled out my phone and called the one number I still trusted.
"Zia Teresa? It's Elena."
"Elena? Madonna, cara, it is six in the morning. What happened?"
"I need somewhere to go." My voice cracked. "Somewhere he can't follow."
She was silent for a moment.
Then, quietly, she said, "What did he do?"
I had meant to sound strong.
But in three years, nobody in that penthouse had asked me a single question about myself.
Those four plain words broke me open.
"He picked her," I whispered. "He's been picking her for months. I just wouldn't look."
"Then you come to me. Brooklyn." Her voice turned hard. "And listen. Take the train. Not a plane. Airports keep names. Pay cash."
"Okay."
"Elena. You are never going back to that man. Capisci?"
"Capisco."
I took a cab to Union Station and bought my ticket with cash.
We had married eleven days after my father's funeral.
Sandro said grief should not wait alone, and I had thanked him for that.
Signora Pagano had died in that bedroom doorway an hour ago.
Nineteen hours to New York.
The train was boarding.
For the first time in three years, I was almost free.
Then I saw him.
A man in a dark coat stood beside a pillar at the far end of the platform, watching me.
Dario Fiore.
Sandro's driver. Sandro's most trusted soldier.
He had driven my father for fifteen years before he ever drove Sandro.
He was the man who taught me to shoot.
Our eyes met across the crowd.
He did not move.
He did not smile.
He took out his phone and held it to his ear.
I turned for the train door.
By the time I looked back, he was already walking toward me.
He stopped an arm's length away.
He lowered the phone and held it out.
"Signora," Dario said quietly. "Don't board. Someone wants a word first."
I took it with a hand that finally shook.
"Mrs. Pagano," said a low, calm voice I had heard only once, across a church, on the worst day of my life.
"This is Raffaele Montano."
My husband's worst enemy.
"Whatever you do," he said, "do not get on that train."
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