Chapter 5 - A Ghost Inside the Family
The man was Salvatore’s nephew.
Matteo Constantino.
Thirty-nine.
Educated at Columbia.
Handsome, charming, and treated for years like the son Salvatore never had.
Matteo had expected to inherit everything.
Then I appeared.
Then I became Salvatore’s wife.
Now I was carrying his child.
Suddenly inheritance had become uncertainty.
“He threatened me over money?”
“Not only money.”
Salvatore stood before the windows.
“Power.”
Matteo believed I had manipulated Salvatore.
He had fed stories to tabloids.
Paid for surveillance.
Accessed hospital databases through a bribed administrator.
Even arranged the threatening photograph.
But Salvatore refused to retaliate immediately.
“I want proof of everything.”
I understood why.
Matteo was family.
And betrayal hurts differently when it knows your childhood nickname.
For three days, Salvatore barely slept.
On the fourth night, I found him in the nursery.
We didn't technically have a nursery yet.
Just an empty guest room.
He stood inside it in darkness.
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
I wrapped my arms around him from behind.
“You loved him.”
“I raised him after his father died.”
“That wasn't what I said.”
His shoulders lowered.
“Yes.”
I pressed my cheek against his back.
“You can be angry and still love someone.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“It is.”
He turned.
Then kissed my forehead.
“I don't deserve you.”
“Correct.”
He almost smiled.
The next morning, Matteo came voluntarily.
I expected a monster.
Instead, he looked terrified.
“Uncle Sal.”
Salvatore sat behind his desk.
“Don't call me that.”
Matteo flinched.
“I never meant to hurt her.”
“You threatened my wife.”
“I wanted her frightened.”
Salvatore rose.
I touched his arm.
Not because I feared him.
Because I knew he would regret whatever happened next.
Matteo looked at me.
“You don't understand. Everything changed when you came.”
“Yes,” I said. “He became happy.”
“That isn't what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
Matteo's eyes dropped to my stomach.
Salvatore moved between us instantly.
The gesture was almost primitive.
“Look at me,” he said.
Matteo obeyed.
“My child has nothing to do with your position.”
“But the organization—”
“Is not a monarchy.”
Matteo stared.
“I spent fifteen years preparing.”
“For a throne I never promised you.”
The words destroyed him.
For the first time, I saw the real tragedy.
Matteo had built his identity around inheriting a life Salvatore no longer wanted.
“I am dismantling it,” Salvatore said.
I looked at him.
Even I hadn't known.
Matteo looked stunned.
“What?”
“The illegal operations. All of them.”
“You can't.”
“I already started.”
“Why?”
Salvatore glanced at me.
Then my stomach.
“Because I want my child to inherit my name without inheriting my enemies.”
That decision created more danger than our marriage ever had.
Old allies panicked.
Rivals sensed weakness.
Men who had profited for decades did not appreciate Salvatore developing a conscience.
And Matteo?
He disappeared.
For five months.
My pregnancy progressed.
The violence around us strangely quieted.
Salvatore became unbearable.
No stairs.
No caffeine.
No lifting grocery bags.
At twenty weeks, he bought an entire baby store because I said I liked one crib.
At twenty-four weeks, he attended a prenatal class wearing a three-piece suit.
At twenty-six weeks, he threatened a birthing instructor because she demonstrated labor pain by squeezing my hips too hard.
“She assaulted you.”
“She demonstrated pressure.”
“Excessively.”
“Salvatore.”
“She enjoyed it.”
I laughed so hard I had to sit down.
Our daughter kicked for the first time that night.
Salvatore froze when he felt it.
Again, that expression.
Wonder.
This enormous, complicated man seemed amazed that life could still surprise him.
We named her Elena Rose.
His first wife's name.
My mother's middle name.
Then, at thirty-two weeks, Ethan returned.
Again.
This time, he didn't come for me.
He came to warn us.
He appeared outside our obstetrician's office pale and frantic.
Salvatore stepped in front of me.
“What are you doing here?”
“Someone contacted me.”
Ethan held up his phone.
“Asked me questions about Lily. Her routines. Your house. The baby.”
Salvatore took the phone.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
The messages came from a burner number.
But one contained a photograph.
Matteo.
Meeting with Victor Bellini.
Salvatore went completely still.
Ethan looked at me.
“I figured you should know.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
Then his gaze dropped briefly toward my stomach.
Something passed over his face.
Regret, perhaps.
But he smiled.
“You look happy.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
Salvatore's jaw tightened.
I saw it.
Of course I saw it.
Ethan extended his hand.
“Take care of her.”
Salvatore looked at him.
Then shook it.
“She takes care of herself.”
My heart nearly exploded.
Growth.
Beautiful, emotionally constipated growth.
Ethan left.
I looked at my husband.
“You handled that well.”
“I wanted to break three of his fingers.”
“Still counts.”
Then Salvatore’s phone buzzed.
A message.
Unknown number.
A photograph of our unborn daughter's ultrasound.
Beneath it:
You destroyed my future. I’ll destroy hers.
Salvatore's face became something I had never seen before.
Not angry.
Not frightened.
Finished.
“Take Lily home.”
“Where are you going?”
He kissed me.
“I'm ending this.”
I grabbed his coat.
“No.”
His eyes hardened.
“Lily.”
“We agreed. You don't shut me out.”
“This is different.”
“No. It's scarier. That doesn't make it different.”
He looked down at my stomach.
Then at me.
“I cannot lose you.”
“You don't protect our family by becoming the man you're trying to leave behind.”
That stopped him.
For a long time, neither of us moved.
Finally, Salvatore nodded.
“Then we do it legally.”
It was perhaps the most romantic sentence a mafia boss could say.
But Matteo had already made his next move.
May you like
And this time, he wasn't coming for me.
He was coming for my mother.
