The Wife He Used to Bury the Truth - Chapter 3: Chapter 3

The moment I dumped Vincenzo onto the bed - shoes still on, no tender sock removal like usual - I knew something had shifted. I walked out without a word, beelining for the guest room.
Sleep came in fits, my dreams haunted by memories of his endless spoiling. The way he'd...
Morning light hit my face through the windows. I blinked awake to find Vincenzo studying me with that laser focus of his.
His lips brushed my forehead. "About last night... I drank too much at the family meeting. It won't happen again." That velvet voice could melt glaciers.
I mumbled something noncommittal and escaped to the shower, scrubbing his scent away like evidence.
The breakfast spread looked like a Michelin-starred Italian bistro. Two years ago, this would've wrecked me. Now? I couldn't even fake a smile. Every damn dish was Bianca's favorite.
The doorbell chimed. Speak of the devil - Bianca strutted in wearing runway-fresh designer threads, plopping down like she owned the place.
"Sorry to crash, Sandra," she purred. "Big supplier meeting today. Boss man said to grab breakfast here."
That's when I saw it - the keycard in her manicured fingers. Top-level clearance. Identical to mine.
Vincenzo caught the tension. "Bianca's family," he soothed. "Of course she has access."
Mid-sentence, he lunged across the table, snatching the espresso from Bianca's hand. "Christ, B! Your blood pressure!" He shook his head like a disappointed parent. "After all these years..."
Bianca's smirk could cut glass. "Lucky you always remember."
Their locked eyes froze the room. I was halfway to the door when Bianca's voice hooked me:
"Sandra, we need professional shots of today's restoration. That new forensic guy's incompetent."
My camera had gathered dust since Dad's... since that day. Every viewfinder brought back his coaching - "Capture the evidence in one shot, piccolina" - and his screaming face as they...
Vincenzo knew. He'd locked my gear away himself, promising I'd shoot again when ready. Now? He manhandled me into the SUV's backseat.
"Sandra, you mind? B gets carsick."
He'd forgotten. After years running from hitmen, my motion sickness made Bianca's look like mild queasiness. By the time we reached the morgue, my stomach was doing backflips.
Vincenzo fussed over Bianca's hazmat suit like she was going into battle, adjusting every strap before leading her inside. I clung to the car door, gulping air.
"Sandra! Stop dawdling!" Vincenzo yanked my arm. "This documentation's critical for Bia and the family."
My knees buckled as he shoved me inside, equipment nearly tumbling from my shaking hands.
Five years. Five years since I'd last framed a shot. Terror clamped my chest like iron bands. The shutter clicks sounded deafening, but muscle memory took over. Click. Adjust. Click.
Halfway through, Vincenzo vanished - leaving me alone with Bianca. She eyed my shots with a viper's smile.
"Pathetic," she hissed. "Just like your father. Imagine infiltrating the mafia only to suck at basic spycraft."
Her grin turned feral. "A traitor's brat like you doesn't belong near the Godfather of Sicily."
The slap came fast - a starburst of pain across my cheek.