Everyone Rejected Him Until He Becomes Don

Alessia’s POV My husband was dead. I had repeated those words to myself so many times since yesterday that they should have started feeling real. They didn’t. Matteo De Santis lay inside the polished black coffin in front of me, dressed in one of his favorite suits, his hands folded over his stomach like he was simply sleeping. Except Matteo had never slept this still. He had snored. He had kicked blankets away. He had complained whenever I opened the curtains too early. Dead men did none of those things. “Mama?” A small hand slipped into mine. I looked down at Luca. My six-year-old son stared at his father’s coffin with red, swollen eyes. My heart broke all over again. I squeezed his hand. “I’m here.” “Is Papa cold?” My throat tightened. Before I could answer, my mother leaned closer and gently touched Luca’s shoulder. “Come sit with Nonna for a little while.” Luca hesitated. He had barely left my side since we were told Matteo was dead. Eventually, he allowed my mother to lead him toward the front pew. I remained beside the coffin. There were three of them. Matteo. Don Vittorio De Santis. And Matteo’s younger brother, Stefano. Three members of the same family murdered in one night. People called it an attack. Some called it an assassination. Others whispered that it was the beginning of a war. I didn’t care what they called it. My husband was still dead. The church was overflowing. Men in expensive black suits occupied nearly every pew. Women dressed in black whispered behind veils. Politicians who had pretended for years not to know the De Santis family now stood beside businessmen who owed Vittorio favors. Even enemies had come. That was the strange thing about Mafia funerals. Everyone came to mourn. Even the people secretly celebrating. I could feel their eyes on me. Poor Alessia. Poor widow. Poor little Luca. But their whispers weren’t only about us. “Who takes over now?” “Vittorio never officially named—” “There has to be someone.” “Matteo was supposed to—” “Stefano is dead too.” “The De Santis family cannot survive without a Don.” I lowered my eyes. Let them fight over titles. I had a more immediate problem. What happened to Luca and me now? Matteo had always handled everything. The house. The guards. The accounts. Our place inside the De Santis family. Without him, I didn’t know what belonged to us anymore. Or who might decide it belonged to someone else. The priest began speaking again. I heard almost none of it. Then the church doors opened. The sound was not particularly loud. Still, the entire room seemed to notice. Conversations stopped. Heads turned. Something cold slid down my spine before I even looked. Then I did. And forgot how to breathe. Raffaele De Santis stood in the doorway. For one terrible second, I was twenty-three again. Standing inside Don Vittorio’s study. Terrified. Ashamed. Desperate. Please. My younger voice echoed inside my head. Please, Don Vittorio. I’ll marry Matteo. I remembered Vittorio staring at me from behind his desk. I remembered twisting my fingers together so tightly they hurt. Then the words I wished I could bury forever. Anyone but Raffaele. I blinked. The church returned. And Raffaele was still there. I had not seen him since that day. Not once. After Vittorio agreed to change the arrangement, Raffaele disappeared from my life almost completely. Matteo rarely spoke about him. Whenever I asked, he usually said his brother was handling family business somewhere else. Eventually, I stopped asking. Years had changed Raffaele. He had always been tall. Now he looked enormous. Broader shoulders filled his black suit, and there was something harder about the way he carried himself. The scar remained. It ran from near his temple down across one side of his face, pulling slightly at the skin near his cheek. Once, it had been the first thing I noticed about him. Today it was his eyes. Cold. Dark. Empty. Several armed men entered behind him. Then something happened that made my stomach tighten. The De Santis capos stood. Not gradually. Almost at once. Men who had barely acknowledged me since Matteo died moved toward Raffaele. One kissed his cheek. Another lowered his head respectfully. A third murmured something I couldn’t hear. Raffaele barely responded. He simply continued walking. Toward the coffins. Toward me. The whispers started again. Much quieter this time. “Raffaele.” “He came back.” “Then it’s decided.” “Of course.” “The eldest surviving son.” “Don Raffaele.” My heart stopped. Don. I looked at him again. Really looked. And suddenly understood why the men surrounding him behaved differently. Raffaele hadn’t returned merely to bury his family. He had returned to take their place. The unwanted son was now the head of the De Santis family. And I was his dead brother’s widow. His eyes lifted. Found mine. Everything inside me went still. Recognition flashed immediately. There was no surprise. No confusion. Raffaele knew exactly who I was. Of course he did. I had once been promised to him. Then I had begged to be given to his brother instead. Surely after all these years— No. The way he looked at me answered that question. He remembered. Raffaele stopped at Vittorio’s coffin first. He stared at his father for several seconds. His expression never changed. Then Stefano. Then Matteo. Something flickered in his eyes when he reached his brother. Pain, perhaps. It disappeared so quickly I wondered if I had imagined it. Then he turned toward me. Each step made my pulse beat harder. I wanted to move. I didn’t. He stopped directly in front of me. Up close, he was even more intimidating. I had forgotten how much taller he was than me. Or perhaps memory had softened him over the years. “Raffaele.” My voice barely worked. His gaze moved slowly over my black dress, then returned to my face. “Alessia.” Hearing my name in his voice made my stomach twist. “I’m sorry about your father,” I managed. “And Stefano.” His gaze moved toward Matteo’s coffin. “And your brother.” “Which one?” I frowned. Raffaele looked at me again. “The one you actually cared about.” My cheeks burned. This was not the place. Not beside Matteo’s coffin. Not surrounded by hundreds of people. “Raffaele—” “Don Raffaele.” One of the men behind him corrected me quietly. Raffaele lifted one hand. The man immediately fell silent. He continued staring at me. Then his eyes moved once more over the black dress I had been wearing for almost twenty-four hours. His mouth curved. It wasn’t a smile. “Widowhood suits you better than I expected.” My blood went cold. “What?” He stepped closer. I smelled expensive cologne and something faintly smoky. Every old warning I had ever heard about him rushed back into my head. Violent. Dangerous. Unforgiving. I glanced around. Nobody was close enough to hear us. Raffaele noticed. Of course he did. He leaned toward me until his mouth was beside my ear. My entire body stiffened. His voice dropped to a murmur. “Did you really think I had forgotten you?”