The Don’s Broken Vow

"Mrs. Moretti, here is your 'fake death' protocol.

Are you absolutely certain you want to plummet from Soul-Breaker Cliff into the Atlantic, right in front of the cameras during the global wedding broadcast in seven days?"

In the backroom of a Brooklyn speakeasy, I sat across from "The Cleaner"—the underworld’s premier specialist in erasing identities.

"Yes," I replied calmly, my fingertip tracing the cold surface of the liability waiver.

"Once the process begins, the name Elena Moretti ceases to exist.

You’ll lose all protection from the Moretti family. You won’t even have a legal ID to your name."

"I’m certain."

As I stepped out of the bar, the massive LED screens in Times Square were tirelessly looping a proposal montage that had every woman in America swooning.

The man in the video was the current Don of the Moretti family: Dante Moretti.

Dressed in a bespoke suit, those hands—the same ones that had pulled triggers countless times and held the power of life and death over the East Coast—were now trembling slightly as they held a massive pink diamond.

"Elena, you are my weakness and my armor. Marry me, and I’ll give you all of New York as a wedding gift."

Tourists stopped in their tracks, letting out collective gasps of awe.

To them, this was a romantic fairy tale between a mob boss and his childhood sweetheart.

Standing in the shadows, my lips curled into a cold, mocking smirk.

The whole world thought he loved me to the bone, that I was his only vulnerability.

But only I knew that for two whole years, he had been hiding a fragile college student in a private villa out on Long Island.

I opened my phone and tapped into an encrypted cloud album.

Inside lay the evidence I’d intercepted through the family’s intel network.

“Dante, you were such a beast last night, My legs are still sore. If you don’t take me to that new French place, I’m never talking to you again!”

And Dante, the man who was cold-blooded and ruthless at any negotiation table, had replied instantly: “My fault, baby. Picking you up tonight.”

In the photos, those hands that had touched me a thousand times were gripped tightly around the waist of a girl named Sophia.

The look in his eyes—a raw, frantic obsession—was something I hadn't seen in all our ten years together.

"Elena? Didn't I tell you to wait for me at home? New York nights are freezing; what if you catch a cold?"

That familiar, magnetic voice rang out from above me.

Seconds later, a cashmere overcoat—carrying the faint scent of cigars and his body heat—was draped over my shoulders.

Dante had appeared behind me out of nowhere. He knelt down gracefully, his long fingers gently tilting my chin up.

His gaze was still deep enough to drown in, but beneath that affection, I caught a flicker of the guilt that comes from a long-term lie.

He brushed away a stray tear from the corner of my eye with his thumb, his fingertip ghosting over my lips.

"Why the tears? Moved by the proposal video?"

He whispered, leaning into my ear, his warm breath ghosting against my neck.

In that instant, a sharp scent of citrus perfume hit my nostrils.

It was Sophia’s favorite brand—the one she intentionally left on my fiancé’s collar as a provocation every single time.

My stomach churned. I instinctively pulled my shoulder back, dodging his touch.

"It’s nothing... I just feel like this is all a bit too perfect to be real. Like a lie,"I muttered, keeping my head down, my voice raspy.

Dante’s hand froze in mid-air, a flash of panic darting through his eyes.

He suddenly pulled me into a hard embrace, gripping me so tight it felt like he wanted to crush me into his very bones.

"Don't overthink it, Elena. You are the only mistress of the Moretti family, and you always will be."

He kissed the top of my head, his voice thick with remorse.

"Come on, let’s go home. We can't have anything going wrong before the wedding."

Leaning into his cold chest, I smiled silently.

Dante, since you betrayed our blood oath, get ready for the funeral I’ve planned for you.