Chapter 3Surprise! You're Not the Don's Wife

Back in my room, I got a call from my father.

The moment the video connected, I saw how much more gray had come into his hair.

"My darling girl," he said. "Is Michele good to you? Are you happy these days?"

My throat tightened, and tears welled up. "Papa, I miss you so much..."

The same father who'd once thrown me out of the house now looked at me with nothing but heartbreak in his eyes.

"This will always be your home," he said with a sigh. "Hold on one more night. I'll send someone for you tomorrow."

After the call ended, regret and guilt tore at me until I couldn't sleep.

I opened a drawer and destroyed every photo of the two of us, every keepsake he'd ever given me. On the windowsill, I tore out the red rose bush he'd given me, roots and all.

Starting tomorrow, this would never be my home again.

I finally drifted off just as the sky was starting to lighten, and by the time I woke, the living room already had a family in it.

Michele and Rita sat at the breakfast table, with Antonio between them.

It was the perfect family portrait, and I was the stain on it.

The sound of my footsteps on the stairs cut the scene short. Michele shot to his feet, an anxious, placating smile on his face.

"Mae, don't get the wrong idea. This is our adopted son, Antonio. I just brought him home. Rita's the one he's closest to, so she's staying a few days to help out."

Beside him, Antonio suddenly grabbed for both Michele's and Rita's hands. "I want Mommy and Daddy to sleep with me every night."

Rita flashed me a smile with a flicker of triumph in it. "Sorry, Mae. Antonio doesn't sleep well in a new place. He needs me close by. You don't mind, do you?"

I wasn't going to mind anything, not anymore, because I was about to leave this place for good.

This whole hollow performance was about to end.

In the silence that followed, Michele's face went pale. His mouth opened, then closed without a word.

Under three sets of watching eyes, I sat down, kept my voice as light and steady as I could, and said, "Of course I don't mind. Let's have breakfast."

Rita slid a plate of pasta toward me. "I made it myself; try it. I heard seafood's your favorite."

She smiled and winked at me. "Make sure you finish it all."

Pale pink shrimp swam in a creamy sauce, flecked with chopped parsley. The smell alone turned my stomach.

I looked up, and in the face of Michele's evasive eyes, asked calmly, "You told her I like shrimp?"

He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing.

I'd been allergic to shellfish my whole life. One shrimp and my throat would swell. Three, and I'd need an ambulance.

Ever since I'd moved into this house, Michele had reminded the kitchen staff more than once. One year, for my birthday dinner, he'd personally had every shellfish dish struck from the menu.

The smile on Rita's face froze, then crumpled, leaving her looking wronged and innocent.

She blinked, her lashes going wet. "I... I really didn't know. Michele never told me. I'm sorry, I just wanted to make you happy..."

Michele's brow furrowed, his expression darkening. He gently soothed Rita and coaxed her back into her seat.

The look he turned on me was full of offended impatience.

"Rita's been up since dawn working on this." His voice dropped, like he was holding back real anger. "She didn't know about your allergy. You could have just told her. What's that look on your face for?"