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.