The Don's 99 Betrayals

"Gently, Caro."

The moment the encrypted video call connected, the sound came through before the picture—Lorenzo’s signature deep voice, raspy with the aftermath of lust.

The camera shook. In a fleeting glimpse, I saw his bare upper body, covered in totem tattoos, leaning against a velvet headboard. A lock of long, chestnut hair was tangled around his muscular waist.

My throat felt like it had been scorched by gunpowder. I asked, trembling, "Lorenzo, where are you?"

The next second, the signal was cut.

It took half an hour for him to call back.

Lorenzo was fully dressed now in an expensive, hand-tailored suit. He was sitting on a hotel terrace in Sicily, swirling whiskey in a glass, his expression impeccably calm.

"Elena, I’m at the safe house. The TV was on, the volume was too loud."

"I’m bringing the diamond back to New York tomorrow. Ti amo. Happy seventh anniversary."

Under the Mediterranean sun, the red diamond in his palm refracted a dazzling, blood-colored light.

On the TV screen behind him, a press conference was playing where he announced that the "Moretti Family will place greater importance on family values."

Lorenzo’s deep blue eyes held a look of devotion that overlapped with the voice on the TV:

"Elena, I couldn't think of a better seventh-anniversary gift. This red diamond represents 'Loyalty.' Are you pleased?"

For a moment, I almost forgot that he had just crawled out of another woman's bed.

My dead heart shamefully sparked with a tiny flicker of hope.

From the day we married in the cathedral, tomorrow would mark exactly seven years.

As the Mafia Don, his reputation as a playboy who drifted through flower gardens of lovers had never changed.

But "returning to the family"—this was the first time he had ever said those words.

I asked cautiously, needing confirmation, "Lorenzo, are you serious? If you’re lying, God will punish you."

"Every family in New York heard it. They’ll take it seriously, too."

His eyes flickered slightly. He looked down to light a cigar. Through the swirling smoke, his smile was lazy and charming.

"When we married, I swore before the Virgin Mary: within seven years, I would either leave the family with nothing, or buy the red diamond, settle down, and live as a true, ordinary couple with you."

"I am a Moretti. I keep my word."

Huge joy rushed to my head, and I could only nod like a fool.

I looked down at the pregnancy test in my hand, showing two clear lines. My voice was full of anticipation:

"I have a gift for you, too."

"Papa—"

The instant I hung up the phone.

A young but clear child’s voice pierced through the receiver.

I stood there, struck by lightning, my body stiff.

I reached out to call back, but a harsh glare reflecting off the vanity table stung my eyes.

I looked up.

In front of me, the massive bulletproof glass jewelry cabinet was filled with diamonds arranged by color.

Seventeen white diamond bracelets. Three blue diamond brooches.

And two pink diamond necklaces.

These weren't just jewelry. These were the seventeen scars, three betrayals, and two humiliations of catching him in the act that Lorenzo Moretti had carved into my heart over the past seven years.

Every time he made a mistake, this man with blood on his hands would come back with these expensive stones, eyes red, kneeling on one knee before me, kissing the back of my hand.

He would say "Mi dispiace" over and over again.

He would beg me not to leave, over and over again.

"Elena, it’s a sickness. I have a sickness where I can’t control my desires, and only you can cure me. In this world full of slaughter, only by your side am I truly alive."

Time and time again, I grabbed his collar, screamed, clawed at him in pain, but in the end, I always chose to forgive.

Seven years.

I thought the prodigal son had finally returned.

It turned out this was just a cruel joke played by God.

I didn't wait for the next day.

That night, I used my connections within the family to access Lorenzo’s private flight logs. The moment he landed, I stormed into a hidden apartment he owned in Brooklyn.

As the mistress of the Moretti family, my greatest privilege was the legal right to mobilize the family’s "eyes."

Unlike the cold, fortress-like mansion I lived in on Long Island, this was a red-brick building full of life.

At the dining table, Lorenzo had shed his Don aura. He was sitting there, peeling a boiled egg.

A little boy, who looked like he was carved from the same mold as Lorenzo, sat opposite him, waiting with eyes full of anticipation to be fed.

My blood felt like it was flowing in reverse. My nose stung, and the last shred of hope in my heart shattered like glass hit by a shotgun blast.

Crash.

The woman walking out of the kitchen froze, her smile vanishing as the plate in her hands smashed onto the floor.

"Mrs. Elena..."