Betray Me, and You’re Dead

My husband, Luca, had a childhood sweetheart named Sophia. Years ago, during a brutal gang shootout, Sophia shielded him from the worst of the bloodshed, and since then, she had suffered from severe PTSD. Because of that, Luca would push aside family business every year and fly to our estate on a secluded island off the coast of Sicily to spend three months “helping her recover.”

“Victoria, she lost her mind because of me,” he told me. “I’m responsible for her. I hope you can be magnanimous.”

So, I nodded. And eventually, I got used to the fact that every year, my husband would disappear for three months to fulfill what he called a moral obligation. That was until the day I flew in without warning to inspect the family’s money-laundering network on that island and saw him.

In the town square, under the bright Mediterranean sun, Luca was standing there with a five-year-old boy by his side.

“Papa, how long do we have to hide on this island?” the child asked. “I want to go to New York. I want to see the Empire State Building.”

Luca laughed gently and scooped him up in his arms. With his other hand, he held Sophia’s.

“Antonio, be good,” he said affectionately. “Papa’s position is… complicated. When you turn eighteen and pass the family’s initiation ceremony, I’ll kill that woman and her dead old man. Then, I’ll take you back to New York to inherit the entire Corleone family.”

I stood in the shadows, unseen. Slowly, I lit a cigarette. The smoke curled around me as their voices drifted over, the conversation getting more vicious as it went.

Sophia leaned into his chest, her tone sweet and coy. “Luca, I’ve been with you for seven years without a name or a title. How much longer are our son and I supposed to live like ghosts?”

Luca sighed. “I don’t have a choice. The old man in the Corleone family is still alive. I married Victoria just to get her territory. Don’t worry. I’ve been adding something to her milk every day. She’ll never get pregnant in this lifetime. My family bloodline will only continue through you.”

The last thread of reason in my mind snapped. In the six years of marriage we shared, I had been infertile. I’d taken countless hormone injections to stimulate ovulation. I’d knelt in church and prayed more times than I could count. Yet, all along, the devil poisoning me was my own husband.

The initial shock faded quickly into rage. I crushed out my cigarette and pulled out my phone. Then, I dialed my uncle, the family’s clean-up man.

“Uncle Rocco,” I said calmly, “Luca betrayed me. He betrayed the family. Order a coffin in the finest black walnut for me, and make it large, large enough to fit a family of three.”

After hanging up on Uncle Rocco, I stared at the dazzling silhouettes of that so-called family of three in the square in Palermo. A cold smile curled at the corner of my lips.

Once, I had truly believed I would be the only woman in his life. I was the Principessa of the Corleone mafia family. Growing up, I got whatever I wanted. If I asked for the wind, I was given a storm. Yet, for Luca, I put away every sharp edge I had. I folded my pride, softened my temper, and became a wife who stayed home and waited for him to return.

I dreamed of children. I dreamed of growing old together. I dreamed of a house with just the two of us, together three meals a day, and all through the changing seasons. However, only after seeing that scene with my own eyes did I realize that six years of devotion were all a joke.

My father, Antonio Corleone, was a man the entire New York underworld respectfully called “Godfather.” He built the Corleone empire from nothing. Every dock, every port, and every prime stretch of real estate in the city—half of it bore our name. He was ruthless, decisive, and a man who made no mistakes.

Yet, with me, he was different. He never let me stain my hands with blood or witness the darkness of the world we lived in. He raised me proud, clean, and untouched by the grime of the streets.

He used to say, “My daughter should live in the light. She should never have to dirty her hands.”

However, Luca had mistaken that protection for weakness.

That very night, I flew back to New York. Three days later, Luca finally returned home. He pushed open the door, looking travel-worn and tired. The scent of another woman’s perfume still clung to him.

“Victoria, I’m sorry,” he said. “Sophia’s episode was bad this time. She knelt in the rain, begging God for forgiveness. I couldn’t leave her.”

He looked exhausted, like a loyal, honorable man torn by responsibility. Meanwhile, I sat on the velvet sofa, with a glass of red wine in my hand, my eyes filled with gentle concern.

In the past, I would have rushed to him. I would have helped him out of his coat and asked if he’d suffered any injury. Yet now, all I felt was irony.

“Poor Sophia,” I said softly. “God will protect her. You must be exhausted. Go take a shower.”

I saw the relief in his eyes.

When he stepped forward, trying to kiss my forehead, I tilted my head slightly and took a slow sip of wine.

“You’re covered in sweat. Go on,” I urged him.

He froze for a second and then chuckled. “Alright. Whatever my wife says.”

As I watched him walk into the bathroom, the warmth in my eyes vanished instantly.

Once, I adored that tenderness. I thought he respected me and cared for me. I believed I had married a rare, good man. Now, all I could see was that he wanted my father and me dead to inherit everything the Corleone family owned. However, he forgot one thing: I was the Godfather’s daughter, and ruthlessness ran in my blood.

The sound of running water echoed from the bathroom. I picked up his suit jacket and searched the pockets with practiced ease. Inside the inner lining, I felt a neatly folded piece of paper.

I unfolded it to see that it was a child’s crayon drawing of a strong man holding hands with a long-haired woman and a little boy. Next to them, written in words, read, “Papa, Mamma, and I, on top of the Empire State Building.”

In one corner of the drawing, a figure had been scribbled over in thick black crayon. Holding it up to the light, I could faintly make out what had been covered. It was a woman in a red dress, lying in a pool of blood, and that woman was me. So it seemed the five-year-old illegitimate son, Antonio, had already been taught how to erase me from the picture.

A sharp pain pierced my chest. Even breathing hurt. That last fragile piece of hope—one I hadn’t even dared admit I still held—turned to dust.

“Victoria? What are you looking at?”

Luca walked out, wrapped in a bath towel.

Calmly, I crumpled the drawing into a ball and tossed it into the fireplace beside me. The flames devoured that “family portrait” in seconds.

“Nothing. Just some scrap paper,” I said lightly. “Oh, by the way, Uncle Rocco mentioned that Papa hasn’t been feeling well lately. He’s thinking of handing over part of the family’s core operations to you.”

The caution in Luca’s eyes instantly turned into unrestrained joy.

“Is that true? Does the Godfather finally trust me?”

I smiled. For my act, I deserved an Oscar for Best Actress.

“Of course,” I replied gently. “After all, you’re the only son-in-law of the Corleone family and my most beloved husband.”