The Don's Broken Vow

For the one hundred and eleventh time, Alessandro missed our wedding rehearsal.

This time, it was because his ex, Francesca, had just won a defamation lawsuit against a gossip magazine. A seven‑figure settlement.

She threw a party at the Four Seasons. Penthouse suite. Open bar.

Two hours in, my driver Carlo sent me the first video.

Alessandro stood in the middle of the room, champagne in hand. All the family soldiers circled around him and Francesca as if she were already the Don’s wife.

Someone made a toast. Alessandro kissed Francesca. Full mouth. Tongue. His hands cupped her face like she was something precious.

The room cheered.

Francesca laughed against his lips. Her fingers curled into his shirt.

Then Alessandro picked her up and carried her toward the bedroom.

Before the door closed, I heard her voice.

“You’ve been so busy, baby. I missed you.”

“I’m here now.” His low laugh. “That’s all that matters.”

The door slammed.

Outside, I heard one of his men laugh. “She’s gonna be Mrs. De Luca eventually. We all know it.”

Mrs. De Luca.

I’d been his secret wife for four years. Nobody knew I existed. They all thought that bitch was the one.

I turned off the video. My stomach clenched. I ran to the bathroom and threw up nothing but bile.

I hadn’t eaten in four days.

I had no tears left. This thing had to end.

At 2 a.m., word came that the party was over. I stood at the gates of the De Luca compound, waiting with the documents I’d prepared.

The armored SUV rolled up slowly. Black. Bulletproof. Alessandro’s silhouette behind the wheel.

He got out. Jacket gone. Shirt untucked. Lipstick on his collar.

In the passenger seat, Francesca was curled up like a cat, her dress hiked up to her thighs, bruises blooming on her skin.

She was asleep. Smiling.

“She had too much to celebrate,” Alessandro said when he saw me. Like it was nothing.

“Should I have a maid take her inside?” I asked.

“No. I’ll drop her at her place after.”

Such a gentleman.

I remembered a night three years ago.

A rival family ambushed us at a restaurant. A bullet came toward Alessandro. I stepped in front of him without thinking.

It hit my rib. Shattered bone. Blood soaked my dress.

After the paramedics came, Alessandro looked at me with cold disgust and said, “You got blood all over my car interior. Pay for the cleaning.”

That night, he made me walk home. Two miles in heels. Bleeding through my bandages.

But tonight, drunk Francesca got to sleep peacefully in his passenger seat. Her vomit‑stained dress didn’t seem to bother him at all.

Funny how his rules only applied to me.

“Are you still coming to the wedding tomorrow?”

Alessandro hesitated. Then sighed. “Postpone it. Francesca’s too tired. She needs me to stay with her.”

“Postpone it until when?”

“Next month. Or the month after.” He turned to look at me. “What’s the difference?”

None. Because there was no wedding to postpone anymore.

I pulled the folded papers from my purse.

“Sign this.”

Alessandro took the envelope without looking. He pulled out a pen and scrawled his name on every line I’d marked.

“Done.” He handed it back. “I’ll have the chef make you lobster tomorrow. To make it up to you.”

Then he got back in the car and drove away.

The next time Alessandro came home, it was noon the following day.

He stood in front of the mirror, unbuttoning his shirt. Francesca’s perfume still on his skin.

Then he stopped.

He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting mine in the reflection.

“What did I sign yesterday?”

I looked at him. Flat. Empty.

“You didn’t ask then. Why ask now?”

“Just curious.” He smiled. Cocky. “You’re my wife. What are you gonna do, ruin me?”

I lowered my eyes.

“Maybe I had you sign over the De Luca assets. Or maybe… divorce papers.”

Something flickered across Alessandro’s face.

He crossed the room fast and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up.

“Valentina.” His voice went low. Dangerous. “If you ever try to leave me…”

“What would you do?”

His thumb traced my jaw. Soft. Then harder.

“I’d lock you in the basement. Chain you to the wall. I’d never let you go.”

He smiled. Sweet and insane.

“Because you belong to me.”

“I wouldn’t dare leave you. If I really wanted to hurt you, it’d be the asset transfer.”

I smiled back.

He didn’t know I wasn’t joking.

What he signed wasn’t asset transfer papers.

It was the dissolution of our alliance.

And our divorce.

After four years, my marriage to Alessandro De Luca was finally over.