He Thought His Pregnant Wife Would Forgive Him Again—Until One Honeymoon Betrayal Cost the Mafia Boss His Family

The Mediterranean sun beamed down with blinding intensity, turning the whitewashed walls of the cliffside villa in Oia into a brilliant expanse of white and gold.

From the edge of the private infinity pool, the dark Aegean Sea stretched out to the horizon, dotted with luxury yachts and fishing boats.

Harper rested on a plush lounge chair beside the water, wearing a tiny white bikini and oversized designer sunglasses. Her skin sparkled with expensive tanning oil as she held up her phone, recording a short video of her fruit platter and champagne glass before snapping a dozen selfies against the dramatic ocean backdrop.

She was twenty-four, breathtakingly beautiful, energetic, and completely uncomplicated.

She did not ask Matteo about his docks in South Boston, she did not care about his conflicts with the rival Moretti crime family, and she had no interest in where his money originated. Her concerns were strictly confined to five-star dinner reservations, private yacht charters, and the daily balance limit on the black credit card he had handed her upon arrival.

It was precisely the mindless, unchallenging escape Matteo had convinced himself he needed after months of high-tension syndicate operations.

Yet, as he stood in the doorway of the master bedroom wearing linen trousers and an unbuttoned shirt, a deep, gnawing sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach.

He stared down at his encrypted satellite phone.

Nothing.

No text messages. No missed calls. No urgent emails from his household staff.

It was the third day of the trip.

On the first day, Matteo had called Arthur, his chief of security back in Boston, to check on the house. Arthur had reported that everything was quiet, mentioning that Mrs. Rossi had requested privacy and was resting in her suite.

On the second day, Matteo had called the mansion’s landline. The call had gone straight to an automated machine, which was unusual, but he assumed Norah was simply ignoring him out of spite.

Now, on the third afternoon, he called Norah’s personal cell phone directly.

“The subscriber you are reaching is unavailable or has been disconnected...”

Matteo pulled the phone away from his ear, his brows furrowing. Disconnected?

He ran a hand through his dark hair, his jaw tightening. He told himself it was a calculated power play. Norah was trying to ruin his vacation. She knew he was in Greece with Harper, and she was intentionally dark-stopping all communication to force him into a desperate, apologetic retreat back to America.

She wanted him to worry. She wanted him to plead.

He refused to give her the satisfaction.

“Matteo, baby!” Harper called out from the poolside, waving her hand toward the stone railing. “Come here! Take a picture of me looking over the edge! The lighting right now is literally insane!”

Matteo looked at her.

For a brief, jarring second, her shrill voice vanished from his consciousness. In her place, he saw Norah sitting beneath the dim yellow light of the range hood in his kitchen, her face pale, her hands gently cradling her swollen belly as she looked at him with those quiet, completely empty eyes.

“I’m not dictating. I’m conceding.”

Her words echoed through his mind, suddenly sounding far less like defeat and far more like a sentence.

A sharp wave of irritation washed over him.

“Take the picture yourself, Harper,” Matteo said, his voice cold and sharp.

Harper pulled off her sunglasses, her full lips forming a dramatic pout. “What is wrong with you? You’ve been pacing around this villa like a caged animal since we landed. We’re in Santorini! You’re supposed to be celebrating!”

“Celebrating what?” Matteo snapped, stepping out onto the hot stone patio.

“Us! This trip!” Harper stood up, wrapping a silk sarong around her waist as she walked toward him. “You said you wanted to get away from that depressing house and your moody wife. We have two full weeks here, Matteo. Stop thinking about business.”

Matteo stared down at her face.

Up close, without the dim lighting of high-end nightclubs, he noticed the shallow vacuum behind her bright eyes. She didn't know him. She didn't care about the burden of carrying thirty men’s lives on his shoulders every time a turf dispute broke out. She was an expensive ornament, a trophy he had displayed to prove he could take whatever he wanted without consequence.

“I need to make a call,” Matteo said curtly, turning his back on her and walking back into the shaded bedroom.

He dialed Arthur’s direct security line.

The line rang twice before Arthur answered. “Boss. Everything alright in Greece?”

“Arthur,” Matteo said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. “Go into the main house right now. Walk up to the master bedroom and put Norah on the line.”

Silence stretched across the satellite connection.

“Arthur? Did you hear me?”

“Boss...” Arthur’s voice sounded strange, hollow, and suddenly hesitant. “I... we haven't seen Mrs. Rossi since Tuesday morning. We assumed she was inside resting because the blinds were drawn in the front estate...”

Matteo’s heart dropped into his chest like a block of lead.

“What do you mean you haven't seen her?” Matteo shouted, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the villa. “You are the head of my security detail! Go into the goddamn house right now!”

“I’m walking up the front steps now, boss,” Arthur said quickly. The sound of heavy boots echoed over the receiver, followed by the electronic beep of the front door keypad unlocking. “We’re inside. Hallway is clear... Kitchen is empty...”

Matteo held his breath, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the phone.

“Boss...” Arthur’s voice cracked. “You need to get back to Boston.”

“What is it, Arthur? Speak!”

“She’s gone, boss. The house is completely wiped. Her clothes, her records... everything. And... Jesus, Matteo.”