Page 51 of Married to the Ruthless Mafia Heir

"How's my wife?"

Marco stood with his hands behind his back, thinking back. "She and Miss Valentina talked downstairs for a few minutes. Didn't look too hostile. Mrs. Moretti's back at the manor now."

I leaned back in my chair, exhaling. "Good."

Marco didn't leave. Instead, he handed me another file. "That background check you wanted on Mrs. Moretti. Information came through."

I raised an eyebrow and flipped it open.

"Her mother lives in Queens. Owns a two-bedroom apartment, decent location. Currently works as a cashier at a big chain supermarket. Stable job. No criminal record, no ties to any organizations."

I opened the folder. Inside were photos of a woman who looked to be in her fifties, wearing a supermarket uniform, busy at a register. Her features echoed Elena's, but she looked decades older, crow's feet stamped deep around her eyes.

"What about the father?"

Marco paused. "Not much of a trail. But according to neighbors, he was a gambler. Racked up serious debt. Collectors used to show up at the house regularly. But he hasn't been around in years. Could've run, could be dead. Either way, he's not living with Mrs. Moretti's mother, and he's not affecting their lives."

I closed the folder. Sat in silence for a moment, drumming my fingers on the desk.

Elena's background was clean. Ordinary as they come. Single-parent household, mother working checkout, father a gambling deadbeat who split. No connection to any families or operations.

If this intel was solid, then why the hell did she become my wife?

I used to think Salvador had forced her hand. Or maybe she wanted money. But her mother had steady work, and Elena barely spent anything after the wedding. She wasn't money-hungry. And her relationship with Salvador seemed adversarial, not like someone under his thumb.

I leaned back, fingers tracing the folder's edge.

A thought surfaced—one that made my heart skip.

Was she in love with me?

I bolted upright. My chest felt like something had slammed into it. I needed to know if I was right. I glanced at my watch, then at the pile of unfinished work on my desk. For the first time, I abandoned it all, grabbed my coat, and walked out.

Marco followed. "Dante, where are you going?"

"The manor."

The drive took over an hour. The sun hadn't set yet when we arrived.

A servant said Elena was resting in the bedroom. When I pushed the door open, only the bedside lamp was on, casting a dim, soft glow.

Elena lay on her side against the headboard, buried under the covers, face pale as the pillow. Papers were spread in front of her, a pen in her hand. She was writing something, slow and focused.

She heard the door and looked up.

That look hit me square in the chest. Her eyes were drained of light. Gray and empty, radiating a kind of desolate calm.

She saw me but didn't speak.

I walked over. "I heard you haven't eaten in two days. I had Lucia bring food."

Her voice came out hoarse. She kept writing. "Don't worry about me."

I stood in the doorway, that sentence choking off whatever I was about to say.

The Cruz family kept testing our borders. I'd barely slept in days. Her hospitalization nearly sent the whole office into chaos. I knew Valentina hadn't given her a satisfactory explanation, so I dropped everything and drove out here. And this was what I got.

Lucia brought in a tray and set it on the nightstand. She sensed the tension and wisely kept her mouth shut as she left.