Faking My Death to Leave the Don

I found out my husband—Raffaele Santoro, the man I took a bullet for five years ago—had been living a double life behind my back.

I remember my head hitting the coffee table. Then nothing.

When I woke up, he was already there. Still in his suit, tie loosened, eyes bloodshot.

"Who did this?" His voice was ice. "Was it Marchetti's men? I'll kill every last one of them."

The doctor tried to explain—just a fall, a few stitches, nothing serious. But Raffaele wasn't listening. He was on the phone, barking orders, threatening to burn down half the city.

For a moment, I almost believed it. That I was the only thing that mattered to him.

Then I remembered the photos before the darkness took me. The DNA report. The two baby boys with his eyes.

He hung up and turned back to me. "I'm here now. No one's going to hurt you."

He brushed the hair from my face, careful to avoid the bandage. His fingers were gentle. Familiar.

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I let him hold my hand. Let him whisper that everything would be okay. Because I needed time to plan.

"You scared me," he murmured. "When they called and said you collapsed, I thought—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I can't lose you, Eden. You know that, right? You're everything to me."

The words should have meant something. A year ago, they would have made me cry.

Now all I could think about was her. Lucrezia Bellini. His childhood sweetheart. The woman who gave him what I couldn't—two healthy sons, born while I was recovering from my third failed IVF cycle.

My hand moved to my stomach without thinking.

Seven weeks. The doctor confirmed it yesterday. After four years of trying, of needles and hormones and crushing disappointment, I was finally pregnant.

I was going to tell him tonight. I had the ultrasound photo tucked in my nightstand, wrapped in a ribbon.

Now it felt like a cruel joke.

"What's wrong?" He noticed my silence. "Are you in pain? I'll get the nurse—"

"I'm fine." I forced a smile. "Just tired."

He leaned in to kiss my forehead, and that's when I smelled it.

Jasmine. Light and expensive. Not my perfume.

And underneath it—baby powder. Sweet and unmistakable.

My stomach turned. I pushed him away and barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up.

He followed. Held my hair back. Rubbed my spine while I heaved.

This was the man who hated mess. Who couldn't stand the smell of sickness. Now he was kneeling on a hospital bathroom floor, not caring about his three-thousand-dollar suit.

I almost broke. Almost told him about the baby. Maybe if he knew, things could be different. Maybe we could start over.

Then his phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen. Something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe, or fear—before he masked it.

"I have to take this. Business." He kissed my temple. "I'll be right back."

He wasn't right back.

Twenty minutes later, a photo arrived from an unknown number.

Raffaele in a nursery. Soft lighting. Pastel walls. He was holding one of the twins, pressing a kiss to the baby's forehead. Lucrezia stood beside him, her hand on his arm, smiling like she'd already won.

The caption read: He runs fast when his sons need him.

I stared at the screen until the image blurred.

So this was what he chose. This was where he ran when he said "business."

I was done.

I called Sienna—my best friend, the only person in this family I still trusted. She worked in Santoro's security department. She knew things that could help me disappear.

Divorce wasn't an option. I knew how the Santoros worked. Once you're in, you don't leave. Not alive.

"I need you to help me disappear," I said.

Silence. Then: "When?"

"As soon as possible. I want everyone to think I'm dead."

More silence. I could hear her breathing, processing.

"Okay," she finally said. "But I'm coming with you."

"Sienna—"

"Taddeo's been lying to me too. I found the messages." Her voice cracked. "I can't stay here anymore, Eden. I can't."

I closed my eyes. "Okay. We go together."

That night, I went home.

Raffaele was still out—handling "business," his text said. He'd be back late.

I walked into the kitchen. The marble countertop where he used to make me late-night pasta. The stove where he'd stand in his shirtsleeves, stirring sauce, telling me about his day.

"I use these hands to hurt people," he once said. "But for you, I want to make something good."

I opened the drawer. Found the recipe cards he'd written out for me—his grandmother's dishes, in his sharp handwriting. I tore them in half and dropped them in the trash.

In the closet, I found the dress I wore when he proposed. Cream silk, hand-stitched. I'd kept it wrapped in tissue paper for four years. I stuffed it into a garbage bag.

My wedding ring caught the light. I almost pulled it off.

But Sienna had a plan. So I left it on. For now.

My phone buzzed.

Sienna: Everything's ready. Two days, and you disappear.

Two days.

Then Eden Winters-Santoro would be dead.