THE DON'S SECRET WIFE Chapter 1: FATHER’S DEATH

They say grief cos in waves. Whoever said that had never watched their father die with a gun to his head.

I stood at the corner of the hospital room, hands shaking, heart pounding, as the steady beep of the heart monitor flattened into one long, rciless line. My throat burned from unshed screams, but I stood still, frozen like stone, because that’s what he would’ve wanted. Dignity, even in death.

My father—Alessandro Valencia—was many things. A gambler. A liar. A man drowning in secrets I was too naïve to question until now. But I never thought I’d watch him slip away so suddenly, so violently, and so alone—unless you count and the two strangers in black suits waiting by the door like vultures.

I pulled the hospital blanket up to his chest, fingers trembling as I traced the bruises blooming across his pale skin. His once sharp features looked hollow now. Lifeless. The vibrant man who taught how to ride a bike, who told bedti stories about kingdoms and dragons, reduced to this. A broken body... and an even more broken legacy.

A cold voice broke through my spiral.

"Miss Valencia," said one of the suited n, his tone clipped, emotionless. "We’re sorry for your loss... but there’s business that needs addressing."

Business.

I almost laughed—choked on it, really. Because of course, even in death, my father couldn’t leave things clean.

I turned to face them, forcing steel into my spine. "He just died," I said, the words tasting like rust on my tongue. "Can you give a damn minute to grieve?"

The taller of the two n stepped forward. His sunglasses stayed on, even though the hospital room’s fluorescent lights made the gesture ridiculous. "I’m afraid we can’t. Mr. DeLuca expects your imdiate presence."

The na sent ice through my veins.

Luciano DeLuca.

The Don.

The man whispered about in dark corners of the city. The man my father had once described—half in fear, half in awe—as soone you never wanted to owe.

And yet... apparently, my father did.

"How much?" I whispered, heart hamring against my ribs. "How much did he owe?"

The man’s lips curled in sothing that wasn’t quite a smile. "Enough."

Enough to warrant two enforcers standing guard over my father’s deathbed. Enough to drag —his only child—into whatever web of debt and danger he’d spun.

I stared at my father’s still face, searching for answers that would never co. His last words to , just a few hours ago, now echoed like a bad on.

"Stay away from them, Aria. No matter what happens, don’t trust anyone who cos for you."

Too late for that.

They didn’t give ti to change out of my hospital clothes. One minute I was wiping away tears with trembling fingers, the next I was shoved into the back of a sleek black SUV with tinted windows so dark I couldn’t tell if it was day or night.

The city blurred past as we drove. Concrete, glass, and neon lights rging into a distorted sar of color and noise. I pulled my knees to my chest, resting my chin on them as the car climbed through one of the more exclusive neighborhoods on the north side.

I didn’t need a GPS to know where we were going. Everyone in this city knew where Luciano DeLuca lived.

The DeLuca estate was infamous. A fortress masked as a mansion. Towering wrought-iron gates. Walls topped with security caras and motion sensors. And inside... God knows what kind of monsters lurked.

The SUV stopped at the front entrance. Before I could steel myself, the door swung open and one of the n gestured for to get out.

My legs felt like lead as I stepped onto the marble driveway. My hospital sneakers felt stupid and out of place against the polished stone. Every instinct in my body scread at to run, but where would I go? The city wasn’t big enough to hide from a man like Luciano DeLuca.

A butler—or maybe just another enforcer in disguise—led through wide corridors lined with gold accents and oil paintings that probably cost more than my father’s entire life insurance policy.

We stopped in front of two massive double doors. The man gave one look—a mix of pity and sothing darker—then knocked twice before pushing them open.

The room slled like cedar and leather. Dim lighting pooled around an enormous mahogany desk. And behind it sat the devil himself.

Luciano DeLuca.

Up close, he was both more beautiful and more terrifying than I imagined. Dark hair slicked back with the precision of a man who liked control. Steel-gray eyes cold enough to freeze hell. A tailored black suit that hugged broad shoulders and powerful arms. He didn’t look up right away—he was signing papers like this was just another business eting.

When he finally did glance up... the air left my lungs.

He studied like I was sothing he’d ordered off a nu but wasn’t sure he wanted to taste.

"Miss Valencia," he said, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "I’m sorry for your loss."

I clenched my fists. "Are you?"

A flicker of amusent crossed his face. "No."

Of course not.

He stood and rounded the desk with slow, predatory grace, stopping just inches from . I tilted my chin upward to et his gaze, refusing to shrink under his stare. If this was how I was going to die, at least I’d die standing.

"You must be wondering why you’re here," he said.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t trust my voice.

He smirked like he already knew.

"Your father owed a debt," he continued, walking around like a lion circling prey. "And now... by blood... that debt falls to you."

I blinked, unable to process. "What? No. That’s not how this works. I didn’t sign anything—"

He cut off with a soft laugh that sohow chilled to the bone. "Your father signed with more than ink, Miss Valencia. He made a blood promise. Which ans... I own whatever he left behind."

I took a trembling step back. "You can’t—"

"I can." His voice dropped an octave, silk turning into steel. "And I will."

The next thing I knew, a thick manila folder was shoved into my hands. Contracts. Ledgers. My father’s gambling slips. All stamped with the DeLuca family crest.

And at the very top... a final page.

With my na on it.

My eyes widened as I scanned the docunt. My heart stopped when I reached the bottom.

Marriage Contract.

I looked up at him, horror blooming in my chest. "You’re joking."

His smile said otherwise.

"This," he said, tapping the paper, "is your new reality. You’re going to marry , Aria Valencia. You’ll wear my ring, share my bed, and play the perfect wife... for one year."

I shook my head violently. "No. Absolutely not."

Luca took a step closer, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat of him, sll the expensive cologne laced with sothing darker. Sothing purely him.

"I wasn’t asking."

That night, I lay awake in one of the mansion’s guest rooms—though prison cell felt more appropriate—staring at the ceiling, unable to stop replaying his words.

You’ll marry ... for one year.

I pressed trembling fingers to my lips, still tasting fear, anger... and a tiny, traitorous spark of curiosity.

How had my life flipped so completely in a single day?

I’d lost my father... inherited his sins... and beco a bargaining chip in a ga I didn’t understand.

But one thing was clear.

This wasn’t just about a debt.

Luciano DeLuca wanted sothing more from .

And God help ... I was going to find out what.