Leaving the Don: A Mafia Wife's Revenge

Vincenzo fell silent for a while before answering vaguely, "Give it some time."

The car sped through the journey and eventually pulled up beneath a luxury apartment building.

The dashcam footage cut out at the moment they got out of the car, wrapped around each other.

It was already 8:00 am the next morning when the recording resumed.

This time, Vincenzo returned to the car alone.

He lit a cigarette and stared at the passenger seat for a long while, his expression unreadable.

Just then, Marco's call came through. "When are you coming over, Don Corleone? Everything in Brodlyn's set. We're just waiting on you."

"Be right there." Vincenzo crushed his cigarette and started the engine.

Marco clicked his tongue and teased, "Don't tell me you're with Ms. Lina again last night? That's a bit much, even for you. You're not actually serious about her, are you?"

Vincenzo chuckled softly. His tone was tinged with impatience, and even a hint of disdain that he didn't seem aware of himself. "Serious about what? She's just for fun."

"What about Freya then?" Marco carefully asked. "You fought the famiglia elders for her back then. The former Don Corleone even broke your arm over it."

The question seemed to catch Vincenzo off guard.

After a long while, he spoke up, his tone icy. "Freya's 38 now."

"What's wrong with that? She's still sharp as ever. She'd even helped us clean up that mess with the FBI last week," Marco replied.

"I don't know why," Vincenzo started, his tone edged with something cruel. "But once she passed 33, she started to feel dirty to me. The fine lines on her face, the smell of gunpowder that never leaves her, and those eyes that see through everything—they made me sick."

It hit me all at once, and my mind went blank. My blood ran cold, my fingertips numb, and even my breath seemed to catch.

Dirty? Sick?

I had put my life on the line for Vincenzo. I held the famiglia together and cooked for him. I gave up my freedom and dreams for him.

And in the end, those were the two words he chose to describe me.

How long has it been since Vincenzo last touched me?

I sat in the car, lighting a cigarette.

It was the brand I used to smoke when I was younger. Later, I quit because Vincenzo didn't like it.

But now, I picked it up again.

I started pondering as smoke curled around me.

It had probably started half a year ago, after Vincenzo saved Lina.

Back then, the famiglia was under FBI investigation. I was stretched thin, sleeping only three or four hours every night. All I wanted was to collapse whenever I got home.

Once, Vincenzo came back drunk and tried to pull me into his arms.

Exhausted, I pushed him away. "Don't do this. I really don't have the energy. Next time."

Vincenzo was stunned. His gaze dimmed, yet he said nothing and went to the guest room instead.

The second time was the night I finally resolved the investigation crisis. I thought we could finally return to how things used to be.

Vincenzo wanted me, but I was slow to respond after days of exhaustion.

He halted halfway through, expression hardening when he asked, "Are you really that unwilling?"

I tried to explain, but he slammed the door and went out drinking until the next morning.

The third time, Vincenzo suggested we sleep separately. "You've been too tired recently. Get some rest. We'll sleep apart for now."

I was so moved by his act that I actually teared up, thinking he was being considerate then. But now I only realized that he wasn't being kind. Instead, he was repulsed by me.

Vincenzo found someone younger and full of energy. He found a woman who fed his vanity to replace a wife who was "old" and "dirty".

The cigarette burned down to the filter, searing my fingertips.

I snapped out of the pain and stubbed it out. However, a small blister had already formed on my fingertip.

This pain was nothing compared to what Vincenzo had said.

I opened the car door and stepped out. As I entered the house, I ran into Vincenzo fresh out of the bathroom, dressed only in his bathrobe with his hair still dripping.

He frowned when he saw me coming in. "Where did you go?"

"I took the trash out," I said evenly. "And went to get some air."

Vincenzo didn't question it. Instead, he nodded and said, "I'm hungry. Have the cooks make something."

"Alright." I turned and headed toward the kitchen, my back straight and my steps steady.

Only I knew that my heart had completely shattered the moment I heard Vincenzo call me dirty.