Denied Divorce? The Donna Widows Herself

When I was 18 years old, Luigi Conti, the craziest heir of the Conti family, pulled out a gun at an auction and executed the Don of the Serra family. That man happened to be my foster father, also the one who had me auctioned away as though I were a slave.

When he was being dragged toward the armored car by the military police, he kept laughing like mad despite having blood streaking down his face.

"Why must I atone for my sins? Since God refuses to save you, let me be your savior! From now on, no one in Sandalay has the guts to clip your wings anymore, my darling Isabella!"

Seven years later, Luigi gets released from prison. He looks at me as I wash dishes for a living in the slums before snuffing out the cigar trapped between his fingers.

That night, Luigi returns to his family and steals the position of the Don.

After we get married, I'm the only person who has the highest access over the vaults under the Conti family.

Luigi even forcibly expands the ring that signifies ultimate authority—which has been passed down from generation to generation for a century—and slides it onto my ring finger.

He buys half of Sandalay's estates just so he can fill the vineyards with the white grapes I've mentioned in passing.

He tells me that his turf is called Isabella.

But everything changes when I discover a photo album stashed in a hidden compartment in Luigi's study. All 2,000 photos feature a young woman in a white dress who is reading in the library.

That is the female assassin he's planning on training.

The woman looks very pure and innocent. She's most suited to conquer certain bigwigs' hearts. But now, it seems that Luigi's the one being conquered by her.

When Luigi finds out about my discovery, he throws the photo album into the fireplace and watches it burn in the fire with a stony expression.

"I'm just repackaging her so that she can aid me in money laundering. Just pretend you never saw the photo album."

I push the signed divorce agreement over to Luigi. "I said, sign the agreement."

Frustrated, Luigi pins the divorce agreement on the table with a knife, his expression insanely dark.

"Isabella Serra, have you forgotten about the Conti family's rules? There's no such thing as divorce. We can only be widowed."

A hunting knife slammed deep into the mahogany tabletop, its blade piercing straight through the thin agreement. The Conti family crest carved into the hilt looked vicious under the flickering light.

Luigi Conti slowly slipped on his leather gloves.

"Isabella Serra, looks like you need a refresher on the family rules." His voice was as gentle as usual. "You can only become a widower in the Conti family, never a divorcee."

After saying that, he didn't bother sparing me a glance and turned to leave, slamming the door behind him.

The butler, Marco Vitale, who had been waiting nervously at the side, stepped forward. He held a silver tray bearing an urgent letter.

"Donna Conti, this just arrived from the hunting grounds."

When I opened the envelope, several photos slipped out and fell to the floor. They showed the family's private shooting range in the background.

Irina Venti stood in the center, clad in an ivory white dress, looking out of place. She held Luigi's custom handgun, the one he never parted with.

Luigi stood right behind her, pressed against her back, his hands wrapped around hers intimately.

On the back of the photo was an arrogant message, "Your hands are for arranging flowers, mine are for holding guns. The Conti family doesn't need another pretty face."

I was disgusted, not because I was jealous, but because someone was going too far.

Late that night, the door to the manor was pushed open.

Luigi returned, reeking of gunpowder. Before he could take off his shoes, he heard a loud commotion from the collection room.

I stood amid the chaos, a golf club gripped tightly in my hands.

The antique firearms he treasured lay destroyed on the floor. The barrel was twisted, and the parts were scattered everywhere.

Luigi's expression turned dark instantly.

"What's gotten into you?" he demanded.

He strode toward me, his leather shoes clanging sharply against the scattered metal parts.

"She's just a tool!" he said, trying to explain himself. "Irina's a weapon I'm shaping. She exists to launder the family's dirty money. Isabella, when did you become this unreasonable? Fussing over a mere tool?"

A tool?

I scoffed icily and tossed the golf club aside. Then I pulled out an orthopedic injury report and slammed it hard against his chest.

"Sorry about that." I met his gaze. "Ten minutes ago, I sent someone to break your weapon's right hand."

Luigi's eyes widened in shock.

The next second, a large hand clamped around my neck, crushing it hard. My entire body was slammed back against the icy wall.

Luigi's eyes were bloodshot, his killing intent unmistakable. It was the same look he'd had when he executed those traitors back then.

"You destroyed my perfect creation!" he roared, his grip tightening.

My vision blurred as air was squeezed from my lungs, but I didn't struggle. Instead, I forced out a mocking smile.

"Seven years ago, you dug me out of hell," I said. "Are you going to bury me yourself now?"

Luigi's hand froze visibly as he gazed at the purplish red marks appearing swiftly on my neck. His expression shifted in an instant from rage to panic, and he yanked his hand away.

I slid down the wall, gulping in air in ragged breaths.

Luigi stood rooted to the spot, looking at a loss.

"She's just a pawn," he said harshly, attempting to conceal his earlier loss of control. "Don't push me, Isabella."

He knelt, trying to caress my cheek. "You know I can't live without you."

I turned my head away in disgust to avoid his touch, then pulled out a silk handkerchief from my sleeve and scrubbed my jaw hard.

"Don't touch me." I tossed the used handkerchief at his face. "You're revolting."