The Wife He Used to Bury the Truth - Chapter 7: Chapter 7

"You're pathetic, Vincenzo," Bianca spat, her voice dripping with venom. "You've always loved Alessandra—too damn proud to admit it. But now that you finally see it? Too late. She's gone. And she's never coming back."
A muscle twitched in Vincenzo's jaw. His dark, hollow eyes burned with something feral—cold, unearthly rage. The calculated control of a mafia boss shattered, leaving only raw, primal instinct.
"No."
His hand snapped out, clamping around Bianca's throat. She choked, nails scraping at his wrist as he lifted her off the ground. His fingers dug into her skin, cutting off her air.
"Alessandra will come back to me," he growled, voice rough, animalistic. "She trusts me. She won't leave me. Once I get rid of you—once I avenge our child—she'll come home."
Bianca's face turned blue, eyes bulging.
"Sir, don't!" The guards burst in, hesitating. "If you kill her, the Lady will never forgive you!"
Vincenzo's grip tightened—then his gaze sharpened. He released her. Bianca crumpled to the floor, gasping, coughing.
"Turn her over to the police."
"No! You swore to protect me!" Bianca shrieked as the guards dragged her up. She thrashed, hair wild, voice raw. "Vincenzo! Vincenzo!"
He didn't flinch. Cold. Unmoved. A flick of his wrist, and they hauled her out. Her screams echoed down the marble halls until the doors slammed shut.
Silence draped the Sicilian castle like a shroud.
Vincenzo stood frozen, chest rising in shallow breaths. Then—
"Any news?"
"Nothing, sir."
He walked to the master bedroom. His steps slowed near the bed. Alessandra's pillow lay untouched. He sank onto the edge, lifting it, pressing his face into the fabric.
Her scent lingered—soft, floral, hers. He inhaled, pain lancing through his chest. A single strand of her hair clung to the pillow. He curled his fingers around it, pressing it over his heart.
A tear fell.
"Sandra… where are you?"
He lay down in her spot, arm stretching across the emptiness, gripping the sheets. Her face flashed in his mind—those dark eyes, that unwavering trust.
A sharp, searing pain tore through his chest. Vincenzo shot upright, gasping, hand clawing at his heart. Stumbling to the balcony, he barely made it outside before collapsing onto the marble steps.
The storm raged—cold, relentless. Rain soaked through his suit, plastered his hair to his forehead. His vision blurred. His body gave out.
And then—nothing.
Alessandra's POV
The hidden forensic lab in Milan was silent except for the hum of machinery. A mutilated body lay on the table—another casualty of mafia warfare.
Sweat trickled down my face beneath the mask, but my hands stayed steady.
Every suture, every reconstruction—it was my father's legacy. He'd been the best undercover agent, giving his life to expose the families. Now, I'd restore dignity to the broken, one body at a time.
For years, I'd wanted this. But Vincenzo had always stopped me—for your protection, he'd say. Five years of delays. Five years under his control.
No more.
Now, I'd heal the scars. Uncover the truth.
For myself. For my father. For justice.
I finished the reconstruction, sent the files to Interpol. Maybe this would crack the case. Maybe it would burn the underworld to the ground.
Vincenzo's POV
"Don! We found her! Intel spotted her at the Milan forensic lab!"
Vincenzo ripped open the report. His chest tightened at the sight—her.
His eyes scanned the files. Flawless work. Precision only she could achieve.