The “Deceased” Donna Chapter 02
After the procedure, I sat on a bench in the hallway, my face pale.
John rushed in, cradling a box of donuts.
He crouched down in front of me, his voice so tender it could have fooled a woman for a lifetime.
“Mona, I brought you the pastries you like. How did the checkup go? Is the baby all right?”
Suddenly I wanted to laugh.
I had just seen that same box of donuts in Riva’s hospital room.
Leftovers from Riva—repurposed as a gift for me.
“Everything’s fine,” I said.
The baby was doing just fine, indeed.
He would be reborn into a family that truly wanted him, rather than being brought into the world through lies as a medical instrument.
John took my hand and pressed his forehead carefully against my belly.
“Mona, I’m so happy.”
“I swear on the name of John Cromwell. When our child is born, I’ll love you both with everything I have.”
I looked up into John’s earnest eyes.
In this underworld where every hand was stained with blood, a Don’s oath outweighed life itself.
But in that moment I understood—his oaths only mattered when they were about Riva.
I pulled my hand back. “I’m tired. Let’s go home.”
Not long after we returned to the estate, John received an iMessage.
He glanced at it and immediately stood up.
“Something came up with the family. I’ll be back soon.”
“Business,” I asked, “or Riva?”
He paused in the middle of putting on his coat. “Don’t overthink it.”
Once the door closed, I walked to his study.
I knew the passcode. It was the date he pulled me out of the war zone.
I had once believed that day mattered to him too.
The laptop screen was still open—not to dock ledgers, not to money-laundering records, but to page after page of leukemia treatment research.
Locked inside the safe was not the Cromwell family’s secrets.
It was a notebook.
*”Riva has a weak stomach. Her food must be low in oil and salt.”*
*”Riva loves roses. The rose estate on Long Island must be completed by year’s end.”*
*”Riva loves sweets. She studied in Paris, so she probably prefers French pastries.”*
Beneath the notes were auction receipts, jewelry orders, private jet records, and hospital investment contracts, all kept as mementos.
He had lowered himself to beg for her. He had thrown money at every problem for her. He had assembled the best medical team in the world for her.
Every word was love—for Riva.
I sat on the floor of the study and cried until there were no tears left.
At last, I stood up and dialed a number.
Looking out at the New York City lights, my voice did not tremble at all.
“Hello. I’d like to arrange a faked-death service.”
“Three days from now. Car accident. Mother and child, both gone.”