He Chose His Mistress Over My Dying Call—Now The Mafia King Is Begging On His Knees

Six months passed.

Spring blossomed late in Maine, melting the icy crust along the shores of Blackwood Cove and replacing it with wild clover, salty breezes, and blooming lupines.

In the small apartment above Clara’s garage, Emma woke up at five in the morning to the sound of seagulls wheeling over the harbor. For the first time in years, she didn't wake up with a knot of nausea in her stomach. Her cheeks had regained their rosy glow, her brown eyes were bright and clear, and she had gained fifteen healthy pounds.

She worked six days a week at The Rusty Anchor, taking orders, pouring coffee, and baking her grandmother's cinnamon rolls, which had quickly become the town's favorite morning treat. The locals called her Emma Clarke, the sweet, quiet girl from down south who kept to herself but always had a warm smile and an extra scoop of chowder for the fishermen coming off the late boats.

""You're glowing today, Emma,"" Clara said as Emma wiped down the counter. Clara set down a fresh stack of menus. ""A young man named David from the marina was asking about you again. Said he’d love to take you out on his sailboat this weekend.""

Emma offered a small, polite smile and shook her head. ""David is sweet, Clara. But I'm not ready for that. I don't know if I ever will be.""

Clara leaned against the counter, studying her with maternal fondness. ""Whoever broke your heart back in New York was a blind fool, honey. But you can't live like a ghost forever. You're twenty-six years old. You've got life to live.""

""I am living, Clara,"" Emma said softly, looking out the diner window at the calm blue water. ""For the first time, I can hear myself think. I don't jump when a phone rings. I don't have to apologize for existing.""

Here, she wasn't Mrs. Vincent Caruso, the shadowy mafia wife who had to wear Kevlar-lined coats to formal dinners and smile beside a man who treated her like an inconvenient piece of furniture. Here, she was just Emma. She took long walks along the rocky bluffs in the evening, read paperback novels, and painted watercolors of the lighthouses.

Her health had returned. Dr. Patel’s dire warnings had saved her life; with proper sleep, real food, and the total removal of toxic terror from her daily routine, her blood pressure had stabilized.

She had found peace.

Yet, in the quietest hours of the night, when the coastal wind howled against the garage shingles, her traitorous heart still ached for the memory of the boy Vincent had once been. The man who had bandaged her scraped knee when they hiked in the Adirondacks. The man who had kissed her forehead in the dark and whispered, You are my home, Em.

She hated herself for missing him. She knew that Vincent Caruso was poison. He had chosen his pride, his mistress, and his empire over her life while she lay dying in an ER.

That morning, an unfamiliar black SUV with out-of-state plates rolled down the main street of Blackwood Cove, kicking up gravel. It parked across from the diner.

Emma felt a sudden, icy prickle at the back of her neck. Her hands began to shake as she set down a glass pot of hot coffee.

The SUV door opened. A man stepped out into the crisp Maine morning.

It wasn't Vincent.