The Don’s Regret

The nine hundred and ninety-ninth time I tried to get closer, I was still pushed away by his coldness.

This was my second year married into the Corleone family.

After hesitating for nearly half an hour, I finally called my brother, Marco Rossi.

My fingers clenched around my phone until they turned pale, and my voice was stretched tight with exhaustion.

“Marco, I want to end the marriage alliance.”

“I told you he’s a piece of ice you can’t melt!” Marco’s sharp voice came through the line. There was a faint sound of fingers tapping against a table, unable to hide his concern.

“You chased him from twenty to twenty-six, handled family affairs for him every day, and even took a bullet for him. He didn’t even say thank you. Was it worth it? Come back to Sicily. The family’s casinos and ports still need you. Isn’t that better than being wronged in Chicago?”

“I’ll finish handling things here,” I said softly. Then I hung up and stood.

As I passed the underground armory, the low murmurs from inside made me stop.

That voice belonged to Vincenzo Corleone. However, it was unusually soft.

I gently pushed the door open a crack and saw him standing beside a velvet chair. His black suit jacket rested on his arm, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms. In his arms was a lifelike doll.

A doll identical to Sophia Corleone.

The almond eyes, the pink lips, even the beauty mark at the corner of her left eye were exactly the same. The skirt was embroidered with daisies—the same pattern I had helped Sophia choose last year.

His fingers brushed repeatedly over the doll’s eye. His voice was hoarse as he said, “Sophia, I still can’t quit you.”

This was the third time I had witnessed this scene.

By now, all that remained was numbness, my heart frozen solid.

I remembered our first meeting at Marco’s family birthday banquet. Vincenzo wore a black suit, and the Corleone gold badge was pinned at his collar.

While everyone else talked business, he sat alone, a glass of whiskey in front of him.

As he looked at me, his dark eyes were deep like the bottomless sea. My heart skipped a beat, and I insisted on clinging to him.

Later, when I took a bullet for him, and my back was bleeding, he only frowned and said, “You’re too easily hurt.”

When I deliberately sat on his lap in his office while handling arms accounts, he lifted me with one hand and set me aside.

Last Christmas, I wore his shirt and lay on his bed, only for him to send me a box of new shirts and coldly tell me not to steal his again.

Marco scolded me for having no self-respect.

In the fourth year, when I was finally disheartened, he said at the docks, “Let’s get married.”

There was no ring or confession. Still, I rushed forward and hugged him like I had grabbed hold of a lifeline.

Only now did I understand that it was merely so he could use the title of Mrs. Corleone to silence rumors about him and Sophia.

I had always been nothing more than a cover.

Inside the armory, Vincenzo bent down and kissed the doll’s neck. His voice was so light that it sounded like a sigh.

“Sophia, I love you.”

That sentence pierced my battered heart with pinpoint accuracy. Tears hit the floor as I turned and left, never looking back.

The next morning, Vincenzo had finished dressing and was preparing to go inspect the casino when I stepped forward and stopped him.

“Wait!”

“I’m very busy today.” He said coldly without looking up. “Don’t pester me.”

That sentence cut me like a dull knife, slowly shredding away my last bit of hope.

So, in his eyes, I had always been a nuisance who wouldn’t let go.

“You misunderstood. I have some errands to run today. Let me use your car.”

“What could you possibly need to take care of?” He still didn’t look up as he handed me the keys.

“Something that will make you happy.” I smiled faintly.

Leaving you forever.