Chapter 1

I married the most powerful mafia godfather in New York, only to become a canary in a gilded cage. And my husband, Damian Falcone, had a “sister” who he needed to protect, one who spent her days convalescing in a private hospital.

The clock struck midnight, and his private phone rang again. He quickly slipped on his silk shirt, his voice filled with that familiar urgency. “Clara’s not feeling well again. I have to go see her.”

Normally, this would be my cue to cry and beg him not to leave, to ask him if one woman’s night was more important than the peace of his family.

Too bad. As I watched his retreating back, all I wanted to do was yawn.

The moment his bulletproof Cadillac pulled out of the manor gates, I dialed the number of his sworn enemy—the head of the Verratti family, Marco Verratti.

The next day, I timed it perfectly. Right when I knew he’d be sitting by Clara’s bedside, I sent him a video call.

When he answered, his face instantly darkened at the sight of me. I leaned back on the sofa, my voice dripping with nonchalance.

“What’s wrong? Weren’t you taking care of your precious Clara? This house is so big and empty. It’s perfectly normal for me to find someone to keep me company, isn’t it?”

“Don’t get the wrong idea. We’re just friends. I’m tired, Damian. Can you please stop being so unreasonable?”

Before he could explode, I hung up.

After all, if you can have a “sister,” why can’t I have a “friend”?

...

The moment the call ended, a dead silence fell over the living room.

Marco raised an eyebrow, slowly tying the belt of his bathrobe, covering up his chiseled abs.

He let out a low chuckle, his tone full of playful mischief. “My guess is the great Falcone godfather will be back with his men in ten minutes, tops. He’ll have this place surrounded.”

I lounged on the sofa, taking a sip of whiskey. “I bet five.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, a loud “BOOM” echoed from the main gate, as if it had been rammed open by a tactical vehicle.

Damian was back, just as I predicted.

His eyes were bloodshot, his chest heaving. Two tense bodyguards followed closely behind him.

His gaze cut like a knife, first at a perfectly composed Marco, then landing on me. His voice was a low growl, forced through gritted teeth. “Serafina, you better have a goddamn explanation for this!”

I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, pretending not to notice his towering rage.

“Explain what?” I looked up, feigning innocence. “I just had a friend over for a chat. Is there something wrong with that?”

“A friend?” Damian scoffed as if I’d told the world’s dumbest joke. He strode forward and grabbed my wrist. “A friend who hangs out with you in a bathrobe?! Serafina, do you have any idea what family honor means!”

The disappointment and fury in his eyes threatened to swallow me whole.

If I were the old Serafina, I would have been heartbroken, crying and pleading my innocence.

But I’m not her.