I Married You For Your Brother's Face

I married the most ruthless Don in Chicago, but not for love, money, or power.

I married Luca Falcone because he was the only man on earth who carried the same DNA as his dead identical twin, Dante-the love of my life.

For three years, I played the role of the submissive, obsessed wife.

I endured his coldness. I cooked for his mistress, Sofia. I even stayed silent when Sofia pushed me down a flight of stairs in a jealous rage, nearly killing me.

Luca thought I stayed because I was weak. He thought the way I stared at his face was adoration.

He never realized I was looking right through him, seeing the ghost of the brother he could never live up to.

But the moment the second pink line appeared on the pregnancy test, my mission was complete.

I had secured the heir. I had brought a piece of Dante back to the world. The vessel was no longer needed.

I signed the divorce papers, packed my bags, and vanished into the night while Luca was busy with his mistress.

When he finally tracked me down months later, broken and begging on his knees for me to come home, I didn't feel a thing.

I looked down at the man who thought he was a King and delivered the final blow.

"I never loved you, Luca. I married you for the sperm."

Chapter 1

The instant the second pink line materialized on the plastic stick, my marriage to the most ruthless Don in Chicago was effectively over.

I didn't cry.

I didn't smile.

I simply placed the test on the marble vanity, right beside the diamond ring that weighed heavier than a shackle, and washed my hands.

The water ran ice-cold, numbing my skin, mirroring the frost that had settled permanently in my chest three years ago.

"Mrs. Falcone?" The voice drifting from the study was trembling.

I dried my hands on a plush towel and walked out.

Mr. Rossi, the family consigliere, was ensconced behind the massive mahogany desk.

He was sweating.

The thermostat read a crisp sixty-eight degrees, yet beads of perspiration gathered along his receding hairline.

He looked at the documents before him as if they were a death sentence.

"Have you drafted them?" I asked, my voice smooth, devoid of the tremors dismantling his composure.

"Elena... Mrs. Falcone," he stammered, adjusting his glasses. "These are annulment papers. If Don Falcone sees this... if Luca sees this..."

"He won't," I said, gliding over to the window.

Outside, the Falcone estate sprawled like a fortress, patrolled by men with assault rifles and hollow, dead eyes.

Luca Falcone.

The man who severed the head of a Russian Bratva leader with piano wire simply because they insulted his family name.

The man who ruled the city's underworld with a brutality that made grown men weep.

My husband.

"He is busy," I continued, turning back to the lawyer. "He is currently at the Ritz-Carlton with Sofia. I doubt he has time for administrative work."

Rossi flinched at the mention of the mistress.

"But protocol... the Omertà..."

"Sign it for him," I ordered. "You have his power of attorney for domestic affairs. He told me last night he wanted this marriage dissolved as much as I did. He said I was a ghost haunting his hallways."

It was a lie.

Luca never spoke to me about feelings.

He didn't speak in sentences; he spoke in commands.

But Rossi didn't know that.

Rossi only knew that Luca spent every night in Sofia's bed, leaving me to rot alone in this mausoleum of a mansion.

"I... I need verbal confirmation," Rossi whispered, his hand hovering shakily over the pen.

I didn't hesitate.

I pulled out my phone and dialed the number saved simply as 'Him'.

It rang once.

Twice.

"What?" Luca's voice was a low growl, rough with irritation.

Background noise filtered through.

The clinking of silverware.

A woman's high-pitched, grating giggle.

Sofia.

"I'm with the lawyer," I said, staring at the framed photo on the desk. "We are finalizing the estate management papers. He requires your authorization to proceed with the... restructuring we discussed."

"I don't have time for this, Elena," Luca snapped.

"Just tell him to sign, Luca. It will get me out of your hair."

"Baby, who is that?" Sofia's voice purred through the speaker. "Is that the wife? Tell her to stop bothering us."

I heard the rustle of fabric.

"Sign whatever she wants, Rossi," Luca barked. "Just make sure she stops calling me."

The line went dead.

I looked at Rossi. "You heard him."

The lawyer let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for ten minutes.

He signed.

The scratch of the pen against the paper sounded like a key turning in a lock.

"Leave the papers," I said. "I will file them."

Rossi gathered his briefcase and fled the room as if the devil himself were nipping at his heels.

When the door clicked shut, the silence rushed back in.

I walked to the desk and picked up the framed photograph I had been staring at.

It was a black and white shot of a man laughing, his head thrown back, eyes crinkled with pure, unadulterated joy.

To the world, this was Luca Falcone.

They were identical twins, after all.

Same sharp jawline.

Same raven hair.

Same towering height.

But I knew the truth.

I ran my thumb over the glass, tracing the curve of the smile.

"I did it," I whispered to the photo. "I secured the heir."

This wasn't Luca.

This was Dante.

Dante Falcone. The Prince. The light to Luca's shadow.

My first love.

The man who was murdered three years ago, leaving me with nothing but a promise and a cold, gaping void in my soul.

I didn't marry Luca for power.

I didn't marry him for money.

I married the monster for one reason only: he was the sole biological vessel capable of bringing a piece of Dante back into this world.

I needed his DNA.

I needed his face.

I played the submissive wife. I endured his coldness. I swallowed the humiliation of seeing his mistress plastered on every tabloid cover.

All for the positive test sitting on the bathroom vanity.

Now, I had what I wanted.

I looked at the photo of Dante one last time.

"I'm bringing you home," I promised.

The front door slammed with enough force to vibrate through the floorboards and rattle the crystal chandelier in the foyer.

He was home.

I smelled him before I saw him-a volatile cocktail of gunpowder, expensive scotch, and the cloying, floral scent of Sofia's perfume.

Bile rose in my throat, but I forced it down, smoothing the front of my silk dress.

Luca strode into the living room, tearing off his jacket and discarding it onto a chair.

His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing the tattoos that crept up his neck-ink that marked him as a killer, a leader, a king.

He looked exactly like Dante-a cruel joke of the universe.

Every time I looked at him, my heart leaped, only to crash and burn when I saw the cold, dead look in his eyes.

"Where is it?" he demanded, not even sparing me a glance.

"Where is what, Luca?"

"The soup. The herbal blend your grandmother used to make. Sofia is feeling faint. She needs it."

I stood perfectly still.

He wanted me, his wife, to cook for his mistress.

It was a test, a way to see how far I would bend before I broke.

He thought I was obsessed with him. He thought my silence was submission, my presence was devotion. He had no idea I was just biding my time.

"I'm not a maid, Luca," I said softly.

He stopped mid-stride and turned to me.

His eyes were dark, bottomless pits of aggression.

He walked over to me, towering over my frame, using his size to intimidate.

"You are whatever I say you are, Elena. You forced this marriage. You wanted the title of Mrs. Falcone. Now act like it."

He grabbed my chin, tilting my face up. His fingers were rough.

"Make the soup."

My gaze dropped from his eyes to his wrist.

There, glinting under the hallway lights, was a vintage Patek Philippe watch. Leather strap. Gold face.

Dante's watch.

The one I gave him for his twenty-first birthday.

Luca had taken it from Dante's body at the morgue, and now he wore it like a trophy.

"I'll make it," I said, my voice steady.

Luca smirked, releasing my chin. "Good girl."

"On one condition."

His smirk faltered. "You're bargaining with me?"

"I want the watch."

Luca looked down at his wrist, then back at me, a furrow of confusion knitting his brows.

"This old thing? It's out of style. I can buy you a diamond-encrusted Rolex tomorrow."

"I don't want a Rolex," I said. "I want that one."

He laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "You're pathetic, Elena. You want it because it's on my skin? Because it smells like me?"

He began to unbuckle it.

"You love me that much? You want my scraps?"

"Yes," I lied, the words tasting like ash. "I love you that much."

He tossed the watch at me.

I caught it.

The leather was warm from his body heat.

I clutched it tight, my nails digging into the strap, suppressing the urge to bring it to my nose and inhale, hoping a trace of Dante remained beneath the scent of his brother.

"Soup. Now," Luca ordered, checking his phone.

Twenty minutes later, I was in the passenger seat of his Bugatti, a thermos of soup on my lap.

He drove like he lived-fast, reckless, aggressive.

"Rossi called me again," Luca said, swerving through traffic. "Said you seemed... different today."

"I'm just tired, Luca."

"Don't be. Sofia needs you to be pleasant. She's sensitive."

We arrived at the private hospital wing the Falcone family owned.

Sofia was lounging in a VIP suite that looked more like a five-star hotel room than a medical facility.

She was wearing a silk robe, her makeup flawless for someone who was supposedly "faint."

When we walked in, her eyes snapped to me, then to Luca.

"Luca!" She held out her arms.

He went to her immediately, sitting on the edge of the bed, kissing her forehead with a tenderness he had never, not once, shown me.

"I brought it," he said gently.

He turned to me and snapped his fingers. "Give it here."

I walked forward and handed him the thermos.

"Pour it," Sofia said, looking at me with a smirk. "My hands are too weak."

Luca looked at me.

I unscrewed the lid and poured the steaming liquid into a bowl. The smell of ginger and herbs filled the room.

"It's hot," I warned.

"I'll feed her," Luca said, taking the bowl from my hands without a word of thanks.

He turned his back to me, spooning the soup, blowing on it gently before bringing it to Sofia's lips.

She opened her mouth, her eyes locking with mine over his shoulder.

She smiled.

A victorious, predatory smile.

She thought she had won the King.

I touched the watch in my pocket, feeling the cool metal against my palm.

I didn't care about the King.

I had the crown jewels.

Turning on my heel, I walked out of the room, leaving my husband to play nursemaid to a rat, while I carried his brother's memory out the door.

The University Gala was an annual torture I usually engaged in strictly for appearances, a mandatory penance for the sake of the Falcone family image.

This had always been Dante's domain.

He had been the scholar, the diplomat who charmed donors and commissioned libraries, while Luca was the blunt instrument who broke kneecaps in the alleyways.

I wore black.

A floor-length velvet gown hugged my curves, a dark armor designed to conceal the invisible fractures in my spirit.

I stood near the champagne tower, a silent observer watching the elite of Chicago mingle like sharks in a tank.

"Elena."

I stiffened.

Luca appeared at my side, his hand settling heavily on the small of my back.

It wasn't a caress; it was a brand. A claim of ownership.

On his other arm hung Sofia.

She was wearing red. A bright, screaming scarlet that clashed violently with the sombre elegance of the evening.

"Look who decided to come out of her cave," Sofia cooed, sipping her champagne with a predatory glint in her eyes. "I told Luca you probably wouldn't fit into your dress anymore. You've been looking... thick lately."

I instinctively moved my hand to my stomach, then stopped, forcing my fingers to unclench.

"I'm fine, Sofia. Just admiring the architecture."

"Boring," she yawned. "Dante used to love this stuff, didn't he? All these dusty books and old buildings."

Luca's hand on my back tightened painfully, his fingers digging into my flesh.

He hated hearing Dante's name.

He hated the constant reminder that he was the spare, the brute, the second choice for everyone-including his own father.

"Let's eat," Luca gritted out.

Dinner was a farce.

Luca spent the entire meal feeding Sofia grapes from his plate, a grotesque display of affection that blatantly ignored the senators and judges attempting to curry his favor.

I sat in silence, dissecting my steak into tiny, precise squares.

"Excuse me," I said, standing up abruptly. "Restroom."

I needed to breathe.

The restroom was empty, a sanctuary of cold marble and gold leaf.

I splashed freezing water on my face, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of my heart.

The door opened.

Sofia walked in.

She didn't use the toilet. Instead, she leaned against the sinks, crossing her arms with a smirk.

"You know he doesn't love you, right?" her voice echoed off the pristine tiles.

"I know," I said, reaching for a paper towel.

"He keeps you around because of the name. Vitiello money launders better than anyone. But in bed? He calls for me."

"Congratulations," I said, moving toward the exit. "You can have him."

She stepped sideways, blocking my path.

"I don't just want him, Elena. I want the ring. I want the house. I want you erased."

"Then convince him to sign the papers."

"Oh, I have a better way."

She pulled out her phone, tapping it against her chin. "I've been leaking info to the Russians. Just small things. Enough to make Luca paranoid. Soon, I'll plant the evidence on you."

My blood ran cold.

"You're betraying the family? That's a death sentence, Sofia."

"Only if I get caught. And Luca? He's so wrapped around my finger he can't see straight."

She laughed, a sharp, brittle sound.

Then, her eyes flicked to the door.

Without warning, she threw herself backward.

"Ahhh!" she screamed, flailing her arms theatrically before crashing onto the floor. "Elena, no!"

The door burst open.

Luca.

He took in the scene instantly, his judgment clouded by instinct.

Sofia lay on the floor, sobbing, clutching her cheek. Me, standing over her, frozen.

"She hit me!" Sofia wailed. "She said I was a whore and slapped me!"

Luca's face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.

He didn't ask what happened.

He didn't look at me for an explanation.

He crossed the room in two predatory strides and shoved me.

"Get away from her!" he roared.

The force was overwhelming.

He didn't mean to push me that hard-or perhaps, in his blind rage, he did.

I stumbled back.

My heels caught on the edge of the plush rug.

I lost my balance.

Behind me gaped the small flight of marble stairs leading down to the lounge area.

I flailed, grasping at the empty air.

"Luca-"

I fell.

My body struck the hard stone steps.

One. Two. Three.

Agony exploded in my side. My head cracked against the iron railing with a sickening thud.

I landed at the bottom in a crumpled heap of black velvet.

The world spun violently.

A sharp, cramping pain seized my abdomen, tearing through me like a hot knife.

"No," I whispered, clutching my stomach. "No, no, no."

Luca stood at the top of the stairs, helping Sofia up.

He glanced down at me.

His eyes were cold, void of any recognition.

"Consider that a lesson," he spat. "Touch her again, and I'll kill you."

He turned and walked away, cradling Sofia as if she were made of spun glass.

He left me there.

Bleeding.

Alone.

I reached for my purse, my fingers trembling so violently I could barely unzip it.

I didn't call Luca.

I didn't call my family.

I dialed emergency services.

"Please," I whispered into the phone, darkness creeping into the edges of my vision. "Save my baby."