The Mafia’s Scapegoat Bride: A Stolen Life Chapter 01
The day I remarried Matthew Gambino, the fake heiress of the Lucchese family burned my foster father Jonathan beyond recognition.
The second I pressed the call button for the police, a heavy blow struck the back of my head. It was just like the “goodnight hit” used when the family cleans house.
When I opened my eyes again, Matthew had surgically given me Grace’s face and thrown me in prison as the scapegoat.
Three years.
One thousand and ninety-five days.
I stared at the prison walls and learned what omertà meant.
Silence was the only way to stay alive.
Three years later, the day I got out, Matthew’s family legal team was on standby around the clock.
One hint of revenge, and they’d have me locked away in a psych ward for another three years, labeled insane.
Even my own son Evan used the allowance I’d given him—an old black card passed down through every Don of the Gambino family—to build a ninety-nine-story safe house.
He hid that fake heiress on the top floor and named it the Grace Building.
They were terrified I’d lay a finger on her.
But I vanished completely, gone from their lives like I’d never existed. I didn’t even give them the chance to kiss the ring.
We met again in front of my hot dog cart.
I lit the gas stove, wiped oil on my apron, and sliced the bun smoothly. My voice was calm, like I was reading a family ledger.
“Extra egg, one dollar. Extra bacon, two dollars.”
Matthew Gambino, Don of the Gambino family—one of New York’s Five Families—fingers trembling, stared at me with a hoarse voice.
“I’m allergic to eggs. Evan can’t eat spicy sausage.”
He paused for a second.
“You forgot?”
I didn’t need to remember.
I only needed to keep track. Thirty-three more sales.
Then I’d have enough for the final payment on the plot next to my foster father Jonathan’s grave.
It was the cheapest spot in the west side cemetery, the row against the wall—no decent headstone could even stand there.
The brush in my hand trembled slightly. I put on my usual smile, the one I’d practiced in prison for the guards.
“New customer, right? I’ll remember next time.”
I flipped the bun and didn’t look up.
“Want extra cheese?”
Matthew’s gaze flickered. His right hand unconsciously touched his left ring finger, where our wedding band used to be. Now it was empty.
“You always put double cheese on my birthday cake. You still—”
“This is their most expensive combo.”
A hand cut in from the side.
“But the cheese is homemade by the owner. Worth every penny!”
I handed the finished hot dog to the female customer and smiled.
“Thanks for the plug. Double cheese next time.”
Matthew’s face darkened visibly. The same face that silenced capos in family meetings was left speechless by a hot dog cart lady.
He opened his car door and bent down into the black stretch Lincoln.
I glanced over and said flatly. “Sorry, small business. No dine-in.”
He looked at my beat-up three-wheeled cart.
“I’ll pay extra.”
“Sure.” I kept sprinkling toppings.
He stared at my slightly shaking hand and sighed quietly. That sigh was exactly like his breath before he said “I do” in front of the priest.
“Come home with me when you’re done playing.”
I didn’t answer. I scooped up the hot dog.
“All done. Enjoy it while it’s hot. I’ll step out so I don’t bother you.”
Before I finished speaking, he grabbed my wrist.
The hand wore the Gambino family’s ancestral ring, black onyx carved with the family crest: [shut up, don’t betray, obey.]
I once swore under that ring to be his wife.
“Stop pretending, Olivia.”
His eyes turned red.
“If you really forgot me, why are you shaking?”
I said plainly.
“Got hit with a stun gun in prison. Permanent damage.”
The softness vanished from Matthew’s face in an instant, like a mask torn off to reveal the cold-blooded Don underneath.
“Grace was raised spoiled. She couldn’t handle that. I put in a word for you—no one was supposed to lay a finger on you.”
The spot he grabbed was an old injury, throbbing. I pulled away, as crisp as when I signed the divorce papers.
When I stayed silent, he sighed and softened his tone—a tone no one had ever heard from the Don of the Gambino family.
“The first day I transferred Evan to his new school, you showed up. I know you miss home. You just want an out.”
“Me coming to get you personally isn’t enough?”
He reached to tuck my hair behind my ear, but his fingers touched a thin layer of grease.
He froze and frowned slightly. He met my eyes and coughed awkwardly.
“It’s not that I mind you, it’s just—”
I shrugged carelessly and held out a napkin with a smile.
“Two dollars a pack. Listed price.”
Matthew froze for a second. He glanced at the sign behind me and gritted out.
“Beer, soda, bottled water. Small profit, no credit.”
I kept tallying.
“Hot dog fifteen dollars, dine-in fee five dollars, napkin two dollars. Total twenty-two.”
His eyes darkened.
He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and slapped it across my face.
The bill landed softly, but it cut deeper than a slap. In the mob, throwing money in someone’s face meant they were less than a dog.
“Olivia, your foster father Jonathan is dead. Who are you putting on this poor act for?”
My smile faltered.
Matthew saw my stunned face, his eyes red, and reached for me.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
I shoved the hot dog into his chest and pushed him out of the cart. I jumped onto the three-wheeler, pointed behind him, and yelled as I pedaled.
“Go! Cops are coming!”
In the rearview mirror, Matthew Gambino—the man who terrified New York’s underworld, who’d handed down thirteen death sentences in family court—roared with a face black as thunder.
“Olivia,You have no soul.”
