My Mafia Husband Faked Amnesia For Three Years, Now He Regrets It Chapter 06

My Mafia Husband Faked Amnesia For Three Years, Now He Regrets It Chapter 06

“Get the hell away from me!”

Matteo shoved Clara off, his eyes blazing red.

The few family guards left on the property heard the commotion and pushed through the door.

Matteo hadn’t lost control enough to reach for a weapon.

He just stood in the middle of the living room, staring at Clara with the same look he gave traitors during interrogations.

“Why did you lie to me back then? Why did you say it was you who saved me?”

Clara’s face went white.

She glanced at the guards by the door and finally understood. The man confronting her wasn’t the passive, broken patient she’d been manipulating.

He was a made man who’d once run the Conte family’s docks.

“I was just an intern nurse at the rehab center. Someone told me you were the Conte heir, that you’d lost your memory. I just… made a mistake.”

She dropped to her knees, voice shaking.

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave right now. I promise you’ll never see me again.”

Matteo watched her in silence.

“Give me Alessia’s blue diamond.”

Clara’s fingers went stiff.

She yanked the necklace off, set it on the table, grabbed her clutch, and ran.

Matteo didn’t chase her.

He suddenly remembered the safe in his study.

It held emergency cash the family kept for Capos, a few bearer bonds, and the trust documents he’d set up for Alessia in private.

He needed money. He needed a plane. He needed connections.

Milan or Palermo, wherever Alessia was, he’d find her.

Ten years of history didn’t just end.

But when he opened the safe, there was nothing left but dust.

While he was in the hospital, Clara had used the authorization papers he’d once given her to drain his personal accounts, clean out the bonds, and take the jewelry. She’d even sold off his numbered collection bottles from the wine cabinet.

Worse, Aldo had frozen every family account Matteo had access to.

The Conte heir who once traveled with an entire retinue at his beck and call couldn’t even charter a private jet now.

Matteo collapsed to the floor.

A plain gold band rolled out from the safe’s hidden compartment and landed by his hand.

Inside the ring, a line was scratched in crooked letters:

“Forever in love.”

He suddenly remembered. That was the first ring Alessia had asked him to make with her.

She’d waited eight hours outside a metalsmith studio in Brooklyn that day.

And he’d called her, crying and throwing a fit on purpose, claiming the sight of rings would trigger him, because he was with Clara.

Alessia finished both rings alone.

When she came home, she just comforted him.

Tears fell onto the ring.

Matteo curled up in the empty study, crying for the first time like a helpless child.

…

A year later, I’d turned the Santoro family’s North American shipping division, the one that had bled money for five straight years, into the group’s most profitable region.

The family elders who’d once questioned me for giving up my inheritance for a man in New York never opposed my seat as don again.

In my office at Milan’s Piazza Gae Aulenti, I sipped my coffee slowly, reading the annual report that had just come in.

Power was steadier than love.

Ledgers were more honest than people.

A friend from New York sent me a screenshot of a news headline.

The headline read:

[Ex-Lover of Former Conte Heir Flees with Fortune, Now Deep in Casino Debt]

I stared at it for a few seconds before I even remembered Clara’s name.

I replied casually:

[Matteo cared so much about her. I’m sure he’ll take care of it for her.]

My friend fired back a string of shaking-head emojis.

[She took his money. That was Matteo’s personal fortune she ran off with.]

[But the underground casino debt was his setup. He didn’t touch her. He just gave back everything she’d ever stolen from other people, piece by piece. She forged checks and stole identities to pay off her debts, and now she got picked up by the Feds.]

[Matteo’s still suspended from family power. Other made men laugh at him to his face, but he doesn’t even respond. I hear he only does two things every day: look for you, and go to church to confess.]

I looked at those two names and felt nothing but distance.

It’d only been a year, but that marriage felt like a past life.

My assistant knocked and came in.

“Donna, there’s a Mr. Conte from New York downstairs.”

“He says he’s your husband.”