Three Years a Fool, One Night the Godmother

Elena's POV The chandelier above the banquet hall cast a warm golden glow over everything. Over three hundred guests filled the De Santis estate—no, the Moretti estate now—dressed in their finest, champagne flutes glinting under the lights. I sat on Matteo's lap, my fingers working the black-gold cufflink into his sleeve. The symbol of supreme power. The Godfather's seal. I smiled up at him, soft and adoring, the way I'd trained myself to smile for seven years. "Perfect," I whispered, finishing the second cufflink. His hand clamped around my waist, possessive and cold. His fingers pressed into my hip bone, hard enough to bruise. I didn't flinch. I never flinched. "Stay close tonight," he said in Italian, not looking at me. His eyes were already scanning the room, landing on her. Serafina. She stood by the bar, a glass of whiskey in her hand. Her black dress clung to every curve. She was watching me too. Smiling. I kept my face neutral. Warm. Adoring. Matteo's fingers tightened on my waist. Then he picked up his champagne glass, took a long sip, and said something that made the air around me turn to ice. He spoke in Griko. The ancient dialect. The dead language. The one he thought I'd never understand. "Guarda sta scema," he muttered, his voice low and smooth. "Pensa ca è a mugghieri du capu. Na scatola vacanti." Look at this stupid woman. She thinks she's the godfather's wife. An empty box. My heart stopped. Just for a second. Then it started again, slower this time, colder. I kept smiling. My fingers smoothed the fabric of his suit lapel. He turned his head slightly toward Serafina, still speaking in that ancient tongue, the words rolling off his tongue like they belonged there. Like he was born speaking the language of my ancestors. "Quannu parturisci a settimana prossima, organizza n'incidenti," he said. "Na morti pulita. U postu di mugghieri du capu, u lassu a tia." When she gives birth next week, arrange an accident. A clean death. The godfather's wife position, I'm keeping it for you. Serafina's smile widened. She raised her glass to him, a slow, deliberate toast. Her eyes slid over to me, and I saw the triumph in them. The victory. She thought I was a dead woman walking. I kissed Matteo's cheek. Soft. Warm. Tender. "Darling," I said in English, my voice light and sweet, "don't drink too much. You have a big speech later." His hand patted my thigh. Dismissive. Like I was a pet. "Go mingle with the other wives," he said. "I have business." I slid off his lap, smoothing my dress. My legs felt like they were made of glass. One wrong move and I'd shatter. But I didn't shatter. I smiled at the guests as I walked past them. I nodded at the capos. I accepted a glass of water from a waiter. And I kept walking, straight to the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind me. The lock turned. I leaned against the marble counter and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My face was pale. My eyes were wide. My hands were shaking. I gripped the counter so hard my knuckles went white. He's going to kill me. He's going to have me killed the moment I give birth. I pressed my hand to my stomach. The slight swell there. The heir he wanted, the heir he needed to secure his power. I was just the incubator. A warm body to carry his bloodline. And once I delivered, I was disposable. I thought about the seven years I'd spent building his empire. The sleepless nights revising his tactical plans. The gun modification diagrams I'd drawn with my own hands. The alliances I'd brokered in secret, using my family's name, my family's networks, my family's blood money. And he thought I was a stupid American wife who didn't speak Italian. I let out a breath. Slow. Controlled. Then I reached into my clutch and pulled out the encrypted satellite phone. The one he didn't know about. The one that connected me to the only people in the world who mattered. I typed in Griko. My mother's language. My grandmother's language. The language of the De Santis queens. Attivate u protocollu "Caccia ô Capu." Pigliatimi iu e l'eredi ntô 48 uri. Activate the "Godfather Hunt" protocol. Pick me and the heir up in 48 hours. I pressed send. The message disappeared from the screen, routed through seven encrypted servers before it would land in the hands of the only man I trusted. Valerio. I closed my eyes and saw his face. The way he'd looked at me seven years ago, when I told him I was marrying Matteo. The way his jaw had tightened. The way he'd said, "If you ever need me, I'll be there." I hadn't called him. Not once. Not in seven years. I was too proud. Too stubborn. Too determined to prove I could do this alone. But now I was carrying a child. My child. My heir. And I'd be damned if I let Matteo Moretti turn my baby into a pawn. I opened my eyes. The woman in the mirror wasn't the same woman who'd walked into this bathroom. Her eyes were different. Colder. Sharper. I smoothed my hair. Adjusted my dress. Painted a smile back on my lips. Then I unlocked the door and walked out. The party was still going. The music was still playing. The champagne was still flowing. Matteo was at the center of it all, Serafina at his side, her hand on his arm. She was laughing at something he said. He was looking at her the way he'd never looked at me. I walked past them toward the terrace. I needed air. I needed to breathe. But Serafina's voice stopped me. "Elena." I turned. She was standing there, a glass of red wine in her hand. Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Congratulations," she said, her Italian smooth and mocking. "You must be so proud of your husband tonight." "I am," I said, my voice soft. "He's done so well." "Has he?" She stepped closer. Her perfume was heavy. Expensive. "I hope you're taking care of yourself. These events can be so... exhausting for a pregnant woman." The threat was there, buried in the sweetness. I heard it loud and clear. I smiled. "I'm fine, thank you." I turned and walked away. My heels clicked against the marble floor. My hand pressed against my stomach. Forty-eight hours. I just had to survive forty-eight hours. Behind me, I heard Matteo's laughter. Serafina's tinkling giggle. The sound of their glasses clinking. They were celebrating my death. They didn't know they were already dead. I stepped onto the terrace. The night air hit my face, cool and sharp. The Sicilian stars glittered above me, ancient and indifferent. I pulled out my phone one more time. A new message had arrived. Protocol confirmed. Extraction team en route. 46 hours. Stay alive, Donna. Donna. The title I was born with. The title he'd stolen from me when he married me and buried me in this gilded cage. I typed back one word. Sempre. Always. I tucked the phone away and looked up at the stars. Somewhere out there, Valerio was moving. His ships were sailing. His men were arming. The hunt had begun. And Matteo Moretti had no idea that the woman he'd just sentenced to death was the one who held the keys to his entire empire. I smiled, a real smile this time. The game was on.