A Ghost Stands Between Me And The Mafia Boss I Love Chapter 02
The night I found out Lorenzo was cheating, I poured a ring of gasoline around the estate, sat on the ground with the lighter in my hand, and smiled as I asked him, “Let’s just die together. Sound good?”
For the first time, I saw real fear in Lorenzo’s eyes.
Then my mother, Valeria, smashed through the door with the Moretti family’s men and slapped me back to my senses.
“Over a man? You’d throw your life away? Celeste, do you want me to die right along with you?”
She held me and cried all night.
I promised her I wouldn’t do anything stupid again.
But the next day, when I went back to her place in Brooklyn, I found her lying peacefully in bed.
An empty pill bottle was sitting next to her hand.
The note held only one line: [If it takes a life to keep you in this marriage, then take mine—not yours.]
Everything after that happened exactly the way she wanted.
Lorenzo cut off all private contact with Bianca Moretti.
He deleted every trace of her, came home on time every day, and checked in with me about everything.
When I woke in the middle of the night from nightmares, he would pull me into his arms and whisper, “Shh. It’s okay. I’m here.”
Everyone said the notoriously cold Don of the Vitale family had finally changed.
But I couldn’t feel any of it.
Every bit of his kindness felt like it carried my mother’s blood on it.
The nightmares came every night.
Then I started catching glimpses of my mother on street corners in Brooklyn.
The doctor diagnosed me with severe trauma-induced visual hallucinations.
Each time I saw her, I would shut my eyes, count to ten, and remind myself it wasn’t real.
Until that night, outside a restaurant in Little Italy, I saw her again.
I closed my eyes. I counted to ten. I opened them.
She was still there.
I drifted toward her like a ghost. That’s when I heard my mother’s familiar voice.
“Lorenzo, the past few years have been hard on you.”
“If we hadn’t done it this way, Celeste would’ve found out eventually. And once she knew Bianca was in the safe house, handling your art pipeline—she never would’ve let that go.”
Lorenzo kept his voice low. “You’re the one who’s given up the most. You’ve been in hiding for years just so Celeste would believe you were dead.”
Valeria sighed. “As long as you keep Bianca safe, it was worth it.”
I stood in that hallway, completely still.
So she wasn’t dead.
The note was staged. The pill bottle was a prop. The death certificate was an illusion they’d prepared in advance.
Together, they had staged an entire death—all to protect Bianca.
***
There was a time when everyone in New York’s underworld envied my marriage to Lorenzo. We loved each other. We came from equally powerful families. Every step from dating to marriage was blessed.
No one could have imagined that my mother would end up dying because of my marriage to Lorenzo. The guilt had been eating me alive every day since.
Only ten minutes ago, I’d learned that all my suffering over the years had been a lie.
My mother, my husband—all of it had been for one person: my “sister,” the Moretti family’s illegitimate daughter, Bianca Moretti.
I gripped the metal clasp on my handbag so hard my knuckles ached. My blood ran cold.
“Lorenzo, go pay the check.”
Valeria’s voice drifted out of the private room again.
“Bianca likes the pistachio desserts from Ferrara. Grab some for her on your way.”
“Take Bianca to the car first and wait for me. It’s cold outside.”
Lorenzo’s tone was still so patient.
I didn’t push open the door. I barely breathed.
I turned and walked down the dim hallway toward the exit.
The cold New York winter wind hit me head-on.
I hailed a cab and gave the address of the Upper East Side apartment.
Once I was in the back seat, I pulled out my phone and opened the cloud sync connected to Lorenzo’s in-car system.
After Valeria’s “death,” he had voluntarily linked it to my phone to prove he would never lie to me again.
The feed loaded fast.
Half an hour earlier, his car had stopped in front of a standalone house in Westchester.
Bianca had climbed into the car arm in arm with a middle-aged woman wearing sunglasses and a hat.
That woman was Valeria.
She couldn’t even leave the house without covering herself up, all to avoid me.
How touching.
A mother willing to turn herself into a “dead woman” to protect her daughter’s husband’s mistress.
A husband playing the devoted man in front of me every day just to keep protecting that woman.
And me—like a complete fool, crying myself to sleep every night over a death that never even happened.
Back at the apartment, I took off my coat and sat down on the living room floor.
I don’t know how long I sat there before the smart lock beeped.
Lorenzo was home.
He brought the cold in with him, carrying a delicate paper bag. The second he saw me on the floor, his expression shifted. He strode over and pulled me up.
“Celeste, the floor is freezing. Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”
His voice was soaked with concern, like I was something that might shatter.
I let him pull me to my feet, my gaze landing on the paper bag.
Pistachio desserts from Ferrara.
“Where were you?” I asked.
Lorenzo set the bag on the table with perfect ease. “I met with an associate who came in from New Jersey.”
He reached over and smoothed my hair. “On the way back, I passed through Little Italy and remembered you used to love this place. So I picked some up.”
I looked at him.
“All the Vitale family meetings today were in Lower Manhattan. Who was important enough for you to detour to Little Italy?”
His hand paused—just for a second.
Then he steadied himself.
“A temporary contact.”
“Enough. Don’t overthink it.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the couch. “The doctor said you can’t handle any more stress.”
He was using my illness against me again. Using it to shut me down.
I looked at the bag.
“Open it.”
Lorenzo visibly relaxed. He took one out and brought it to my lips. “Try a bite.”
I didn’t move. I just stared at him.
“Lorenzo. Did you forget I’m allergic to pistachios?”
The air froze.
His hand stopped midair, and for the first time, a flicker of panic crossed his eyes.
“Sorry.” He quickly put the dessert back. “I’ve had too much going on lately. I got mixed up.”
Of course he got mixed up.
Because the person who loves pistachio desserts was never me.
It was Bianca.
That bag was never meant for me.
I forced a small smile. “It’s fine.”
I turned toward the bedroom, but Lorenzo grabbed my wrist. For the first time, his voice carried exhaustion he couldn’t hide.
“Celeste, I’m just exhausted. Can you please stop looking at me like that?”
I stopped but didn’t turn around.
“Then how should I look at you?”
