The Mafia’s Scapegoat Bride: A Stolen Life Chapter 07

The Mafia’s Scapegoat Bride: A Stolen Life Chapter 07

“Pull up the surveillance footage.” 

Dr. Nathan hesitated, then headed for the 

monitoring room. 

Ten minutes later, a laptop was set before 

Matthew. 

The black–and–white footage dated back three 

years to that fateful night. 

The old man lay in bed, wrapped head to toe in 

bandages, his eyes closed. 

The door swung open, and Grace stepped inside. 

Dressed in a tailored suit with her hair perfectly 

styled, she wore that soft, practiced smile–the 

same expression she’d perfected over five years. 

for Matthew. 

She sat down beside the bed. 

The old man’s eyes fluttered open. They were clouded and weary, yet lit up the moment he saw her, the warm light of a father gazing at his 

daughter. 

“Uncle Jonathan. It’s Grace.” 

His eyes widened sharply. 

He knew who she was–not from her face, but 

from the mole on the crook of her right hand. The very same mole his late wife had borne. 

Grace pulled out her phone, lit the screen, and held 

it out to him. 

The video showed Matthew’s operating room. 

Beneath the surgical lights, Matthew stood with a scalpel in hand, altering Olivia’s features. 

She lay unconscious on the table, her face covered 

in blood–soaked gauze, her original features long. 

unrecognizable. 

The old man’s body began to shake violently. He stretched out his bandaged hand, reaching for the phone. 

Grace stepped aside easily. 

“Calm down, Uncle. I just wanted you to see. Now she and I are practically one and the same.” 

“Sister Olivia is going to prison in my place.” 

“Three years. She’ll wear my face and serve my sentence. Meanwhile, I’ll stay out here and look 

after Matthew. I’ve already picked out your burial plot too–the cheapest one at Westside Cemetery, along the back wall. I’ll pay for it. As for Olivia…” 

“She’ll never get free again.” 

The old man thrashed about, trying to sit up and yank out his medical tubes. 

But his body was far too weak. His feeble struggles achieved nothing. The heart monitor spiked wildly. 

“Uncle, I’ve always wondered. You’re my birth 

father, blood of my blood. Shouldn’t you want me to live a good life?” 

“So why come looking for me?” 

Her tone rose sharply. 

“Why insist on meeting me? Don’t you realize 

everyone learned I’m just a fake Lucchese heiress 

after you showed up? The servants mock me, my 

friends look down on me. Even Matthew sees me 

differently now.” 

She slammed the phone down hard on the 

nightstand with a dull thud. 

“If you truly wished me well, you’d have taken 

Olivia far away and never come near me. Instead, 

you walked right in and exposed me for who I am.” 

“What did I ever do to deserve this?” 

She stood and walked toward the door, glancing 

back over her shoulder. 

There was no remorse in her eyes, only pure 

loathing. 

“Don’t blame Olivia. Blame yourself. You never 

should have let her come back to take what’s 

mine.” 

The door clicked shut. 

Only the old man’s ragged breathing filled the room, growing faster by the second. The heart monitor climbed to one hundred and fifty beats 

per minute. 

He stared up at the ceiling, his lips moving silently. 

Matthew read the words forming on his mouth. 

“Olivia… Olivia…” 

He turned his head toward the framed photo of Olivia and Jonathan on the nightstand. 

With trembling fingers, he reached out and pulled 

it close to his chest. 

Then he bowed his head, 

and bit through his oxygen tube. 

Matthew stared at the screen, frozen in place. 

He only hit pause when the monitor’s shrill alarm blared and nurses rushed into the room. 

He rose slowly, tucking the laptop under his arm. He gathered the organ donation record, prison files and visitor logs from the table, stacking them neatly together. 

He grabbed a chair and hurled it at the window. 

Glass shattered across the floor. Night wind rushed inside, tossing his hair back from his forehead. 

He drove his fist hard into the wall. Plaster cracked to reveal the bricks underneath. Blood 

dripped down his knuckles. 

He stood amid the wreckage, his chest heaving violently. 

His hands hung limp at his sides, blood dripping steadily onto the floor. 

Matthew sank to his knees and buried his face in 

his knees. 

A phone vibration cut through the silence. 

It was the family’s Underboss. 

He answered, saying not a word. 

The Underboss’s voice came through, tight with panic. 

“Don. During the surgery Grace performed… the patient’s heart has stopped.”