The Wife Who Didn't Come Back
Agatha Christie · Completed · 7.7k Words
Introduction
My husband, Lorenzo Castellano—the mafia king who controlled the entire East Coast—gripped my blood-stained hand and choked out: "It's okay. You're all I need."
I believed him.
Until our anniversary, when I smelled her perfume on his shirt and discovered the truth: his sister-in-law had given him a three-year-old son—those same deep brown eyes I'd bled five times trying to create.
The cruel irony? Just the day before, two pink lines had appeared on a pregnancy test.
That night, the explosion lit up the entire ocean, our private yacht burning like a funeral pyre.
The man who made all of New York's underworld tremble finally learned what it meant to lose.
He lost his wife.
And the child he would never know existed.
Chapter 1
Catalina's POV
I was on my knees when I found out my husband had a son.
Not praying. Retching.
The pregnancy test lay in the trash—two pink lines mocking me.
But the nausea wasn't from morning sickness.
It was from the truth.
Bianca's child belonged to Lorenzo. Not to his dead brother. To HIM.
Three years. Three years of watching him play the noble uncle, the protective brother-in-law. All while he was fucking her behind my back.
I gripped the sink, cold marble biting into my palm. Blood welled up, but I felt nothing.
Nothing could compare to the pain of a heart being ripped apart.
The bathroom door slammed open.
"Catalina!"
Lorenzo rushed in, those blood-stained hands now cupping my face. The man who stayed stone-faced with guns pointed at him was trembling at the sight of me on the floor.
"Christ, you're white as a sheet—I'm calling the doctor."
"I'm fine." I shoved him away, forcing myself up. "Just something I ate."
He didn't buy it. His arm locked around my waist, practically lifting me off the ground.
"Weren't you dealing with the Russo situation?"
Three hours ago, he'd gotten a call—the Russo family was making their move at the docks. A twenty-million-dollar arms deal. Enough to trigger an all-out war among the East Coast families.
But Lorenzo only held me tighter. "Nothing matters more than you."
He laid me on the bed and grabbed his phone. His voice turned to ice. "Paolo, handle everything for the next week. Tell anyone who asks I'm out."
He ended the call and sat on the edge of the bed, his touch gentle again as he brushed the sweat from my forehead.
"I'm not going anywhere," he murmured. "I'm staying right here."
I closed my eyes, lashes trembling.
"Oh, by the way," he smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes softening, "three days till our seventh anniversary. I've got your gift already. You're going to love it."
I went still.
Seven years. We'd been married seven years.
I thought that was long enough. Long enough to make him mine.
I was wrong. He was never mine to begin with.
"Can't wait." I forced a smile.
He leaned in, forehead against mine, breath warm on my lips. "What do you want to eat? I'll make it."
An hour later, pots and pans clattered in the kitchen.
I watched from the doorway. His tall frame looked cramped in the narrow space, spatula held awkwardly, sweat beading on his forehead.
He hated cooking—hated the smoke, the mess, all of it. But here he was, fumbling through it for me.
He spotted me and raised an eyebrow, looking almost shy. "Doesn't look pretty, but it should taste decent. Want to try?"
That smile. The same one from seven years ago when he proposed.
My heart twisted.
For a second, I almost believed it.
Believed we could go back. Believed those words weren't lies.
I opened my mouth, nearly telling him everything. "Lorenzo, I—"
"Apron's loose, honey." He turned, showing his back. "Can you tie it?"
I moved behind him to tie the strings. My nose brushed his collar.
And I froze.
Tuberose.
That heavy, sickly-sweet scent.
Bianca's signature perfume. She drowned herself in it, like she wanted to mark everything she touched.
My hands stopped mid-air.
So when he held me earlier, he'd been covered in HER scent. When he said "nothing matters more than you," his shirt still carried her warmth. Now he was making me breakfast in the same clothes he'd worn in her bed.
God. I was so tired. So fucking tired.
"Catalina?" Lorenzo turned, concern flooding his dark eyes. "You okay? You're pale again."
"Just tired." I tied the strings without meeting his gaze.
He turned off the stove immediately and scooped me up. "Rest. I'll warm some milk."
The door clicked shut.
I broke.
Silent tears slid down my face. I bit my lip hard, swallowing the sound trying to claw out of my throat.
My hand dropped to my stomach.
Seven years. Five miscarriages. We'd wanted a child desperately. After the last hemorrhage, the doctor said my uterine wall was paper-thin—another pregnancy could kill me. That night, Lorenzo held me, his palm covering my belly, voice raw. "It's okay. You're enough."
I'd cried in his arms.
Now? Now I wanted to laugh.
He already had a child. Of course he didn't need me to give him one.
Midnight. Lorenzo was asleep.
I slipped out of bed and into the study. Moonlight cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows, splitting the room into light and shadow.
I pulled out a phone only I knew existed.
To the world, I was Lorenzo Castellano's trophy wife—elegant, obedient, the perfect mafia wife who knew nothing about the family business.
Seven years ago, I was the East Coast's best money launderer. I had my own network, my own power.
"Paolo."
Three seconds of silence. "Mrs. Castellano? How did you—"
Paolo was Lorenzo's right hand now. But before that, he'd been mine. Lorenzo had no idea.
"I need an explosion," I cut him off. "Three days from now. I disappear. Completely."
"WHAT?" Paolo's voice cracked. "What happened? Are you sure? If the boss finds out—"
"He won't find out."
My voice didn't waver.
"Because in three days, I'll be dead."
I paused, my palm pressed against my stomach.
Me. And the baby he'll never know about.
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