The Don’s Runaway Wife

That night, I realized something I had never allowed myself to see before— in Victor’s world, I had never been the most important person.

“I don’t feel well… I think someone drugged me.”

My fingers tightened around the sleeve of his suit as I spoke, my voice trembling. Heat rushed through my body, my breathing turning shallow and uneven, and the floor beneath me seemed to tilt as I struggled to stay upright.

Victor glanced down at me, those deep blue eyes as calm and unreadable as the ocean. For a moment he slipped an arm around my waist, clearly about to escort me out, but his phone rang before we could take a step.

He answered, listened for a few seconds, and then slowly let go of me.

“Take Donna to the hospital,” he instructed one of his men. Then he looked back at me, his tone as steady as if we were discussing a routine business matter. “Elena, I have something to handle. I’ll check on you later.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“Victor, I’m your wife. Someone just drugged me, and you’re sending me to the hospital alone?”

A faint crease appeared between his brows, the same expression he used whenever he thought I was being unreasonable.

“Be good,” he said quietly. “This is important.”

Then he turned and walked out of the ballroom.

I stood there, watching his broad back disappear into the crowd, my heart tightening as if an invisible hand had closed around it.

What could possibly be more important than that?

The drug was spreading through my system fast. I bit down on my tongue hard enough to taste blood, using the pain to keep myself conscious. Shoving away the bodyguard who tried to steady me, I stumbled out of the hall.

Outside, I flagged down a taxi and told the driver to follow Victor’s car.

Twenty minutes later, the car stopped outside an upscale restaurant.

I pushed the door open and stepped out unsteadily. Through the enormous glass windows, I watched Victor walk toward a table.

And the person waiting for him there—was Stella Rossi.

My sister.

Cold spread through my entire body in an instant, because there was no one in the world I hated more than her.

Stella sat there in a tailored beige suit, her long hair falling softly over her shoulders, wearing that same gentle, composed smile she always showed the world.

She had always looked perfect. The perfect daughter. The perfect younger sister.

All my life, she had been the pride of the Rossi family, while I was simply the older sister who was expected to “be understanding.”

When we were children, I tried telling our parents what she did behind their backs, but they never believed me. They always took her side.

“You’re the older one,” they would say. “You should let your sister have her way.”

“Stella is such a sweet girl. There’s no way she would do something like that. You must have misunderstood.”

Eventually I stopped trying to explain.

I just grew to hate her more and more.

After Victor and I got married, I once mentioned all of this during a casual conversation. At the time he told me he would always stand on my side. During several family gatherings afterward, he barely acknowledged Stella at all.

He treated her like she wasn’t even there.

And yet now—

he had abandoned me at a mafia family banquet just to have dinner with her.

I leaned against the cold wall outside the restaurant, staring at the two of them through the glass.

Victor sat across from her with that same look I knew so well. The same quiet focus he used to reserve for me.

He poured water for her himself, passed her a napkin, every movement natural, effortless, intimate.

Stella’s voice drifted softly across the table.

“Victor, are you sure it’s okay to leave Elena alone like that just to have dinner with me? I heard she wasn’t feeling well tonight.”

“I already had my men take her to the hospital.”

Then he added,

“Right now, what concerns you matters more.”

Standing outside that restaurant, I suddenly thought back to the alliance marriage three years earlier that had bound my life to his.

Victor Moretti— the man the entire underworld feared.

Stories about him circulated constantly. People said he was ruthless, that traitors ended up at the bottom of the ocean and enemies simply disappeared overnight.

And me Elena Rossi.

I had always been proud, stubborn, and unwilling to let anyone dictate my life, which was exactly why I hated being forced to marry a man I didn’t know and certainly didn’t love.

So I rebelled.

When Victor gave me a ruby necklace worth a fortune, I donated it to charity the next day and told him it was tacky.

When he took me to a mafia family auction gala, I slipped out halfway through and went clubbing instead.

Everyone was convinced my behavior would eventually push him too far.

That one day Victor Moretti himself would deal with me.

But he never did.

Instead, he indulged me.

When I locked away the jewelry he bought me, he sent something even more extravagant the next day.

When I walked out of the auction, he had his assistant settle the bid and deliver the piece I had glanced at to my room.

When I smashed his limited-edition sports car, ten identical ones appeared in the driveway of the estate the following morning.

“All that matters is that you’re happy,” he told me once.

“Break as many as you like.”

I had been stunned.

Victor stood in front of me then, tall and commanding, those deep blue eyes cold and fathomless, his sharp features and powerful build giving him the unmistakable presence of a man born to rule.

But that day, when he looked at me, there was no anger in his eyes. No irritation.

Only a quiet warmth I couldn’t quite understand.

And that was the moment I fell in love with him.