He Lost His Donna Forever

Elena's Point-of-View

I walked out of the law firm into a biting early spring wind that made me shudder. I squeezed my fist, my nails biting into my palm, until the pain forced the truth home—I wasn't dreaming.

I had been reborn five years into the past—back to when the world was still whole, and the worst of it hadn't yet been written in stone.

I had just arrived back at the fortified estate on the outskirts of the city when the butler approached, holding out a letter. "I have another letter for you, Donna Moretti—it's from Don Moretti. He's currently in Chicalum settling a territory dispute, yet he still finds time to write to you every single day.

"You're the envy of the whole famiglia, since Don Moretti treasures you so much, Donna Moretti."

I looked at the letter, which read, "To my one and only love," and noticed the sharp and authoritative penmanship, a perfect reflection of Dante Moretti's commanding nature.

In my past life, these love letters had once made my heart overflow with joy; now, they felt like nothing but a cruel irony.

I was just about to step into the main building when a voice called out from the nearby terrace of the adjacent wing. "You're finally back, Elena!"

It was Sofia Bianchi, my sister-in-law by marriage, who sat on the terrace with her daughter, Lucia Moretti, feasting on a lavish seafood spread that had been imported by air.

I noticed that Lucia was wearing a costly, custom-tailored outfit and was beaming like a Principessa, while my five-year-old son, Leone Moretti, was crouched on the steps, gazing at them longingly.

Sofia lowered her wineglass and deliberately raised her voice, asking, "Isn't Dante returning to Novayork today? He truly is indulgent. You, the Donna, spend your days reading his love letters, while I'm stuck here managing the famiglia's most difficult and vital overseas accounts. I'll certainly have to complain to him about it when he gets back."

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I thought about how absurd everything was.

In my past life, it had played out the same way—Dante showered me with all the "romance" in the world, while he funneled the lifeblood of the Moretti empire to Sofia, the widow of his older brother, Damiano Moretti.

I still remembered the day Dante asked for my hand, when he went down on one knee in the famiglia's private chapel, surrounded by all the high-ranking members. He stated solemnly, "I swear the Moretti famiglia will be your backing as long as I live and that I will never betray you, Elena."

In those days, I was the woman every socialite in Novayork envied. Dante was the youngest, most cold-blooded head the Moretti famiglia had ever seen. He had shielded me since childhood, even going as far as to charge single-handedly into an enemy encirclement for my sake.

In the first year after our marriage, the love letters he wrote while on assignments could fill an entire safe; each one concluded with a heart, drawn with a charming clumsiness.

It all fell apart when Damiano died in that turf war. Dante stood before the coffin at the funeral and swore an oath to Sofia as she held her daughter. "Your life and Lucia's life will be my responsibility from this day onward, Sofia. I swear I'll be responsible for you until the very end."

I had initially believed that it was all for the sake of preserving the famiglia bloodline back then, until reality hit home.

Sofia was dining on the finest delicacies, yet Leone and I were stuck with the lowest-grade rations under the guise of "budgetary constraints." Lucia flaunted custom leather shoes set with diamonds, but Leone's shoes were worn to the ground, his toes freezing in the Novayork cold. Dante's entire personal stipend was funneled into Sofia's pocket, leaving us with nothing.

Dante eventually became the Don and was set to move into a palatial penthouse overlooking Benhatten. He ruffled Leone's hair and said, "I'll bring you home once I've cleared out the opposition over there, Leone."

In the end, it was Sofia and Lucia who moved into the penthouse with him and mingled at high-society events. Leone and I were left behind at the dilapidated manor in the countryside, living like a pair of forgotten shadows.

He kept sending letters just like before, and while every line was saturated with love, he failed to provide even a penny for our basic needs. He remained a ghost to us, never once making the trip back to see how we were faring.

It was a snowy night when Leone suddenly fell gravely ill, nearly at death's door. I sold my wedding ring and carried him, begging from street to street all the way to Benhatten.

I was blinded by the brilliant light emitting from the penthouse. I caught sight of Dante as he emerged from a bulletproof Lincoln from afar, accompanied by Sofia, who was wrapped in a luxurious fur coat.

I was just about to run toward him when one of his bodyguards kicked me squarely in the chest and bellowed, "Get lost! You're soiling the Donna's path!"

I spat out a mouthful of blood from that single savage blow and watched through blurred vision as Dante's back disappeared into the revolving doors. I knew he heard my screams, but he didn't so much as spare a glance back.

I held Leone's lifeless, icy frame as he took his last breath on that snowy night. I then surrendered to the hopelessness and closed my eyes forever.