My body was found in my husband's warehouse. Dumped between crates of wine worth more than my life ever meant to him. Dominic fixed his cufflinks, studied my destroyed face, and told his men: "Find out who she is." I stood three feet from the man I married — and he didn't recognize me. But then again, he never really saw me when I was alive. The call had come at 2 AM. One of Dominic's soldiers discovered me during a routine security check at the Russo family's import warehouse on the waterfront. My husband — Dominic Russo, the most feared man in this city — didn't flinch when he saw the blood. He'd seen worse. He'd done worse. Dr. Luca, his personal physician, crouched beside my body, his face grim beneath a surgical mask. "She was young. Mid-twenties," he reported, adjusting his gloves. "Cause of death — throat cut. But that was the mercy. Before that, she was tortured. Days, at least. Multiple broken bones, burns, ligature marks on both wrists. Whoever did this took their time." My face was gone. Destroyed deliberately. Acid, Luca determined. Whoever ordered the hit wanted me unrecognizable. Dominic's jaw tightened — not with grief, but with territorial rage. Someone had dumped a corpse on Russo property. An insult. A provocation. "Any ID?" he asked flatly. "Nothing. No wallet, no phone. Just this." Luca held up an evidence bag. Inside was a delicate chain necklace, crusted with dried blood. Hanging from it: a small handcarved olive-wood rosary. My heart — or whatever ghosts have instead — clenched. I had carved that rosary with my own hands. Three weeks of work, my fingers bleeding from the delicate tools, sanding each tiny bead until it was silk-smooth. When I gave it to Dominic, he'd stared at it in silence. For one breathtaking moment, I thought he was moved. Then Valentina walked in. "What is that?" she'd laughed, lifting it with two manicured fingers as if it were something dead. "Dominic, darling, please tell me you're not wearing homemade jewelry. You have a reputation." He'd snatched it from my hands without a word and tossed it on the counter. His eyes never left Valentina's face. I found it later in the trash, where Valentina had swept it. I wore it around my own neck instead. Now Dominic glanced at the evidence bag, looked away, and said, "Bag it. Check for prints." Dr. Luca cleared his throat. "There's something else. The victim was pregnant. Approximately two months." Silence. Dominic's eyes darkened. "Someone kills a pregnant woman and dumps her in my warehouse? Find who did this. No one walks away breathing." I watched him — aching. Two months pregnant. Exactly what I'd told him five days ago. We were in the kitchen. I'd made his favorite — pasta alla norma, his mother's recipe. He hadn't touched it. "Dom, I'm pregnant. Two months." He had laughed. Actually laughed. "We haven't touched each other in months. Whose bastard is it?" "Yours. That night — two months ago — you came home drunk—" "Valentina was with me that night. She said you didn't even bother coming home." Valentina lied. Like she always did. I'd been there. I'd carried him to bed, held his hair back when he was sick. In the dark, barely conscious, he'd reached for me. Called my actual name — for once. But by morning, Valentina had rewritten the story, as she always did. Now Dominic pulled out his phone and typed a message while my blood dried on his warehouse floor. Sign the divorce papers by tomorrow, Lily. I'm done waiting. The text went to a phone that would never buzz again.
