Chapter 6 - The Reckoning and the Real Deal
Two months after the gala at the Drake Hotel, the facade had quietly stopped feeling like a performance.
The fake elopement story had held up against my mother’s relentless interrogations, largely because Matteo had actually gone to the trouble of commissioning a custom photo album filled with doctored pictures of us on a yacht in Monaco—complete with Mediterranean sunsets, white linen suits, and a ring bearer who looked suspiciously like one of Matteo’s heavily armed associates holding a bouquet of peonies.
My mother had finally surrendered, realizing that nagging me only resulted in Matteo sending massive floral arrangements to our apartment that took up half the living room and intimidated the mailman.
My life had shifted on its axis in ways I never anticipated. Nora now had a standing Saturday afternoon playdate with Matteo’s orphaned nine-year-old niece, Isabella, supervised by a terrifyingly efficient nanny named Mrs. Gable who baked cookies that tasted like heaven and carried a concealed permit for a snub-nosed revolver in her handbag.
And Matteo? Matteo had become a steady, immovable fixture in our chaotic routine. He showed up at our apartment on Tuesday nights with takeout from my favorite Thai place. He helped Nora build Lego towers. He listened—truly listened—when I vented about the nursing shortages at the hospital, never once making me feel like my world was small or insignificant.
Until the night everything came crashing down.
It was a cold November Tuesday. Nora was asleep in her room, and Matteo and I were sitting at my small kitchen table sharing a cup of tea when a sharp, frantic knocking rattled the front door.
I frowned, glancing at the clock on the microwave. It was 11:45 PM.
Before I could stand up, Matteo was already on his feet, his hand sliding smoothly beneath his jacket toward his shoulder holster with practiced, terrifying efficiency.
"Stay here," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, metallic register.
He pulled the door open.
Standing in the hallway, shivering in a thin designer coat with mascara running down her cheeks, was Paige—Connor’s wife.
I stood up from the table, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Paige? What on earth are you doing here?"
Paige stumbled past Matteo without even looking at him, her eyes wide with shock and panic as she collapsed into one of our kitchen chairs.
"He left me," she sobbed, burying her face in her hands. "Connor cleaned out our joint savings account this afternoon, transferred everything to an offshore account in the Caymans, and texted me from O’Hare that he was catching a flight to Miami with a corporate lawyer twenty years older than him."
The kitchen went dead silent.
I stared at her, a strange, hollow numbness spreading through my chest. Not because I loved Connor—that part of my life had died the night he walked away from me in the snow five years ago—but because of the sheer, predictable cruelty of the man.
"I'm sorry, Paige," I said softly, walking over to pour her a glass of water. "I really am."
"He told me I was a liability," she cried, looking up with red, swollen eyes. "He said I was getting fat and boring, just like he told me you were holding him back before. He said winning in life meant cutting away dead weight."
A shadow fell over the kitchen table as Matteo stepped closer. His face was carved from granite, his gray eyes flashing with a cold, merciless fury that made even me take an involuntary step back.
"What was the name of the bank in the Caymans?" Matteo asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Paige blinked up at him, intimidated by the sheer menace radiating from his frame. "Grand Cayman Trust... why?"
Matteo pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapped the screen twice, and held it to his ear.
"Vance," Matteo said into the phone, addressing one of his associates. "Track Connor Wade. He’s boarding a flight to Miami or currently in transit. I want his accounts frozen, his passports flagged, and every single dime he stole from his wife transferred back into her personal account within the hour. If he resists, break his thumbs so he can't sign legal documents for six months."
My eyes widened. "Matteo, no—you can't just break his thumbs!"
"Watch me," Matteo replied flatly, his eyes still locked on the phone before ending the call with a curt nod. He looked down at Paige, his expression softening by a fraction. "Drink your water, Mrs. Wade. Your husband is about to experience a very steep learning curve regarding the consequences of stealing from women."
Paige stared at him in stunned silence, clutching the glass of water like a lifeline.
Three weeks later, the snow was falling heavily over the Chicago River, dusting the ledges of the Ashwick Grand with a blanket of pristine white.
We were back in the ballroom—not as wedding guests hiding in the overflow section, but at the head table of a major charity gala hosted by the Salvano Foundation.
I wore a deep emerald gown that hugged my curves, the massive diamond ring sparkling on my left hand under the crystal chandeliers. Nora was fast asleep at home in her own bed, guarded by Mrs. Gable and two of Matteo’s most trusted men.
During a lull in the program, Matteo pulled me out onto the private balcony overlooking the city skyline, wrapping his heavy cashmere coat around my shoulders to block the winter chill.
The wind whipped our hair around, but neither of us moved.
"Connor’s trial is set for March," Matteo said quietly, resting his hands on the stone railing on either side of me, trapping me safely in his warmth. "He pled guilty to wire fraud and embezzlement yesterday. He's looking at five years in a federal penitentiary."
I looked out over the glowing lights of Chicago, feeling a profound, weightless sense of release. The ghost of my past life—the fear, the inadequacy, the desperate need to prove I was worthy of love—was finally gone.
"And Paige?" I asked.
"She got every penny back, moved back home with her parents, and filed for divorce," Matteo said. "She'll be fine."
He turned his body toward mine, his gray eyes searching my face with an intensity that made the winter air feel like spring.
"Maren," he began, his voice dropping into that low, serious register that always made my breath catch. "The six months are almost up. Your mother has stopped asking questions. Connor is locked away. You don't need the shield anymore."
My chest tightened sharply. For a terrifying second, I thought he was about to say it was over—that the play was finished, and we could go our separate ways.
"Are you firing me as your fake wife, Mr. Salvano?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light, though my heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Matteo didn't smile. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket—not for a business card, and not for a burner phone.
He pulled out a small velvet box, opened it, and revealed a second ring: a simple, elegant platinum band inlaid with tiny, delicate emeralds and diamonds.
"The first ring was a prop," Matteo said, his voice thick with emotion. "It was armor to keep the world from hurting you. But this..." He took the massive diamond off my finger, sliding it into his pocket, and replaced it with the delicate platinum band. "...this is real. If you'll have me, Maren. No games. No contracts. Just us."
I stared down at my hand, the cool metal fitting my finger as if it had been measured for me by destiny itself.
May you like
When I looked back up into his eyes, I didn't see the dangerous mafia boss or the stranger from Table Fourteen. I saw the man who brought me Thai food, who read bedtime stories to my daughter, and who had burned down the world just to make sure nobody ever made me feel small again.
"It took you long enough," I whispered, and pulled him down into the kiss that ended all our pretend games forever.
