My Mafia Husband Faked Amnesia For Three Years, Now He Regrets It Chapter 01

My Mafia Husband Faked Amnesia For Three Years, Now He Regrets It Chapter 01

On the day the Conte family heir turned thirty, he was diagnosed with traumatic amnesia.

“Alessia, if I ever forget you, promise me you’ll make me remember all over again.”

Matteo Conte held my hand, his eyes so fragile it hurt to look at him.

I believed him.

From that day on, I quit my position at the Santoro family’s North American foundation and gave every minute of my time to taking care of him.

But he only got worse.

When he saw the white roses I’d tended from seed myself, he would fly into a rage. He yanked every bush out root and stem, then planted the garden bed with cilantro, the one thing I hated more than anything.

If he saw the laptop I used for family’s ledgers, he’d shriek like a terrified child, claiming the numbers on the screen were out to get him. Then he’d shove the whole thing into the washing machine and let it churn until the hard drive cracked in two.

The moment he caught a glimpse of our wedding rings, he would grab at his hair, shouting they were manacles to chain him down.

Eventually, he forgot my name entirely. He’d hold me close and mumble someone else’s.

“Clara…”

I corrected him every time. I held his hand and traced “Alessia” onto paper, over and over.

Until the family dinner.

I stood outside the private room at Delmonico’s, finding Matteo sitting among Capos and family advisors through the half-open door.

His back was straight. His gray-blue eyes were sharp and clear.

The same man who couldn’t hold a fork in front of me, who’d cry at the sight of our rings, was now signing documents at an unhurried, deliberate pace.

“Matteo, how much longer are you going to keep this up with your wife?”

One of the Capos who’d gone through his initiation with him laughed.

“It’s been almost a year. You’re not afraid she’ll file for divorce?”

Matteo leaned back in his chair, a faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

“That’s exactly what I want.”

“Clara saved my life back then. Now that she’s back, the title of Mrs. Conte belongs to her and her alone.”

Another man swirled his drink, shrugging.

“Alessia’s just some minor European family’s daughter they married off for an alliance. She got three years as Mrs. Conte. That’s already more than she deserved.”

They all laughed.

They didn’t know I wasn’t some nobody’s daughter.

I was the sole heir to the Santoro family of Sicily.

My grandfather controlled shipping routes out of Palermo and Genoa. Our private security firms stretched across Southern Europe. In the underworld, people called me “the Santoro princess.”

Three years ago, I rejected every marriage arrangement my family had lined up, buried my status as the heiress of the Santoro family, and came to New York with nothing but a suitcase.

Not for a political alliance, though.

I came for Matteo. I loved him.

To make sure the Contes didn’t see our marriage as a power grab, I even asked my family to send no guards, no shares, and to keep my inheritance quiet.

However, my concessions became the reason they looked down on me.

Matteo just let them be.

I felt like I’d been shoved into an icy river.

Watching him sit there so clear-headed and composed, I wiped the tears from my eyes before they could fall.

For the rest of my life, I hope you never remember me all over again.

…

The family doctor said this kind of amnesia usually followed a severe accident. Patients lost chunks of memory. And when they saw certain people, certain objects, or caught a familiar scent, they’d snap and thrash about like frightened children. No one could calm them down.

Every time Matteo lost it before, I never got angry. I just hurt for him.

I took a breath and pushed the door open.

“Mrs. Conte’s here.”

The men who’d been mocking me exchanged knowing glances and snapped the ledgers shut.

Matteo’s expression went blank in an instant.

He grabbed a water glass like he’d never used one before and splashed water everywhere. Then he slammed the table, frustrated.

“Take away this cup! Take it away!”

Before, I would’ve pulled out his sippy cup and held it to his lips, saying, “Drink slowly.”

Now I just watched his performance with cold eyes. After a moment, even Matteo seemed to feel the awkwardness.

He settled down and looked up at me. “What are you doing here? Who are you?”

Before the words were fully out, the door opened again.

A woman in a white cashmere dress walked in.

Clara Bennett.

Matteo didn’t move, but his spine straightened.

“Clara, you’re finally back from London.”

“Matteo’s been thinking about you all these years.”

Everyone crowded around her, laughing and talking. Their glances kept drifting my way.

Like they were reminding me that the nobody from some minor European family was finally supposed to step aside.

Clara came up to me and gave a gentle smile.

“Alessia, I heard about Matteo’s condition. You’ve done so much all this time.”

I nodded and gestured for her to sit.

But she looked at the seat next to me.

“May I sit beside Matteo?”

“Sure.” I nodded, my voice dripping with irony. “He gets triggered by silverware at meals. You might want to be careful.”

“Never mind.” Clara pulled a so-called cognitive care certificate out of her bag. “When I heard he was sick, I took trauma care courses in London. His symptoms are set off by certain people and objects. Professional care might help him recover.”

The table jumped in.

“She used to work at a rehab center. She definitely knows more than some amateur.”

“Maybe now that Clara’s back, Matteo will start remembering.”

I sat in silence for a moment, picked up my clutch, and moved to a chair across the table.

The dinner came back to life.

Clara cut Matteo’s steak and fed him bite by bite.

He ate quietly. No complaints. No tantrums.

At home, the second he saw me pick up a knife, he’d flip his plate and scream that the silver reminded him of the lake.

I’d switched to wooden utensils, but he smashed those too.

But the silver fork Clara handed him he held steady.

He even ate the minced garlic, which he’d always hated.

“Clara… eat.”

He picked up a piece of cilantro beef with his fork and dropped it onto her plate.

Clara’s eyes lit up.

“I can’t believe you still remember I love cilantro after three years.”

“See? Clara’s the one who knows what she’s doing.”

“She’s only been back five minutes and Matteo’s already using forks.”

The praise came from every direction.

A bitter taste spread through my mouth, like rust on my tongue.

So that’s why the garden was full of cilantro.

Not because he was sick.

Because Clara liked it.

The white roses he’d ripped out… I’d brought those cuttings all the way from Sicily.

Empty ground can be replanted.

But feelings that have been stomped on by someone you trusted don’t grow back.

I finished my wine, grabbed my clutch, and walked out of the restaurant.

It was snowing over Manhattan.

The financial district’s lights reflected off the wet streets. Behind me, the laughter hadn’t stopped.

I called my mother.

“Mom, I’ll come back to Europe and take over the Santoro family.”

“I’m leaving New York in three days.”