The Mafia’s Scapegoat Bride: A Stolen Life Chapter 05

The Mafia’s Scapegoat Bride: A Stolen Life Chapter 05

Matthew barely knew how he ended the call. 

How could Olivia only have one kidney? 

Someone inside the prison must have sabotaged 

her. 

“Look into it.” 

He pushed open the door to Eric’s office, his voice 

raw, like sandpaper grating on steel. The bronze 

plaque on the door read Consigliere–the Gambino. family’s most trusted Consigliere. 

“What really happened to Olivia during those three 

years behind bars?” 

Eric, the old advisor who’d served three 

generations of Dons, froze and quickly stood. 

He’d seen Matthew furious, but never hollow- 

never like a man who’d lost his backbone entirely. 

Matthew did not sit. He paced sharply before the mahogany desk, his leather shoes thudding cold, heavy rhythm across the floor. 

“I personally warned the warden. Ordered him to 

protect her.” 

He spoke like he was trying to convince himself. 

No one dared touch what belonged to him. No. 

one. 

Where did that child come from? The little boy 

who called her mother? 

Did he know the truth? 

Eric’s fingers hovered over his keyboard, every 

movement careful. One wrong word, and he’d end up sleeping with the fishes. 

“Don, I’ve found something about the boy.” 

“Speak.” 

“The child’s name is Mark. He’s four.” 

Eric swallowed hard. 

“He is not Olivia’s biological son.” 

Matthew’s footsteps halted at once. 

“Mark’s birth mother was her prison cellmate,” Eric 

went on. 

“She was pregnant when she was convicted and sentenced to death. Before her execution, she left 

the infant in Olivia’s care. Olivia raised him after 

getting out. He should’ve called her aunt, but to that little boy, Olivia is his only mother.” 

Matthew staggered slightly. 

He shut his eyes, his throat tightening violently. 

The child was never hers with another man. 

“Eric, pull every file on her prison term.” 

Matthew opened his eyes. His gaze was cold, empty–the exact look he wore before sentencing traitors to death. 

“I want it now.” 

Eric did not dare delay. 

Ten minutes later, a sealed encrypted file landed on the desk, stamped with the red mafia seal “OMERTÀ“-the code of silence, forbidden from all outside disclosure. 

As Eric turned to leave, Matthew stopped him. 

“The boy?” 

“I’ve had him brought here. He’s in the lounge next door.” 

When Matthew stepped inside, Mark was curled on the sofa, clutching a neatly folded old coat- Olivia’s coat, still marked with the prison laundry’s serial number. 

The boy lifted his head at the sound of movement, eyes sharp and guarded, a cornered little wolf cub. 

His lips trembled, but he did not cry. Olivia had taught him never to shed tears in front of enemies. 

Matthew sat across from him. He tried to soften 

his tone, but the face known as death itself in the mafia world was terrifying to any child. 

“Your name’s Mark?” 

“I need to ask you something… about your mom in prison.” 

Matthew chose his words carefully. “Did anyone hurt her in there?” 

Mark pressed his lips into a thin, rigid line. 

“If you tell me,” Matthew paused, voice low. 

“I’ll help her.” 

The second the words left his mouth, Mark shot to 

his feet and spat straight at Matthew’s face. 

“Ugh!” 

“You’re the monster who locked her away!” 

Matthew froze. 

No one had ever dared humiliate him like this. The 

last man who’d spat at him had been stuffed in a 

cement barrel and drowned in the East River. 

“Nobody bullied her, right?” Mark sneered bitterly. 

“They treated her like royalty. You believe that?” 

Matthew’s pupils constricted. 

Mark spoke slowly, each word sharp and burning. 

“They beat her every single day. Burned her with cigarette butts. Prodded her with stun guns. 

Carved words into her skin.” 

“What did they carve?” Matthew’s voice broke. 

“I don’t know many words.” Mark’s eyes burned 

red, yet he held back every tear, just like Olivia taught him–never surrender to enemies. 

“But I know this letter. G. The G for Gambino. They 

said she’d offended Don Matthew’s woman.” 

Matthew shot violently to his feet. 

The chair crashed backward, booming like a 

gunshot. 

He stormed over, grabbed Mark by the collar, and lifted the four–year–old off the ground. 

“You’re lying!” 

Hanging in the air, Mark did not struggle or cry. 

His eyes bled red, yet not a single tear fell. 

“They broke her ribs. The bone pierced her lung. The prison doctor said she nearly died.” 

“She coughed up blood for three months. She 

never dared sleep, terrified of nightmares–of fire, 

of you.” 

Mark’s voice finally cracked with suppressed 

sobs. 

“She already gave you one kidney. You even took 

her face. How could you be this cruel?”