Married to the Don, Replaced by His First Love

Once I had the divorce papers in hand, I planned to head straight to Valentino family headquarters. I’d come up with some excuse to get Rico to sign it without him reading it first.

That way, I’d be the bigger person, and save him all the messy, unnecessary drama.

The whole drive over, I ran through a million different scenarios in my head. Would he notice what it was? Would he fly off the handle if he did?

But the second I stepped into the ground-floor lobby, armed bodyguards stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

“Sorry, ma’am. No entry.”

For three years, Rico had never once publicly acknowledged who I was to him. I wasn’t about to announce it now, either. I just pulled out my phone and called him.

The line rang once before I heard his ringtone echoing from the elevators. Rico was walking out, leading a group of his men.

He glanced at his screen, his brow furrowing slightly, like he was debating whether to answer. I hung up on instinct.

He didn’t seem to think much of it, just kept talking to the men behind him.

It wasn’t until he walked right past me that I saw who he’d been shielding with his body.

Seraphina Rossi.

Years had passed, but she was still just as ethereal, just as breathtaking.

She walked shoulder to shoulder with Rico, her voice bright with delight. “Ri, you still have the same ringtone after all these years? It’s still my favorite instrumental piece.”

Rico had been a rebellious, loud-mouthed kid who only listened to rap. But Seraphina had only loved soft instrumentals.

So he’d changed his entire music taste for her. That’s what love does, I guess. Even all these years later, he still held onto it.

The two of them stepped into the VIP elevator.

The bodyguard cleared his throat, speaking to me again.

“Ma’am, if you’re here on business, you’ll need to provide ID.”

I forced a smile. “Sorry, I took a wrong turn.”

I walked out of the building, my bones aching with exhaustion. All I wanted was to go home and sleep.

When I was arriving home, a friend forwarded me a post from a private underworld group chat.

“Holy fucking shit! Guess who I just spotted at that rooftop restaurant in Manhattan? Rico and Seraphina!”

“No way! Are they still there? I’m heading over right now!”

Seraphina had also posted a picture on her Instagram.

I noticed a man’s forearm holding a glass of water.

His face wasn’t in the frame, but I’d know those strong, defined forearms anywhere. And that million-dollar Patek Philippe on his wrist.

It was Rico. No question.

The caption read: “Savoring each meal together, sharing love and laughter.”

I zoomed in on the photo. Then zoomed in again. Rico had beautiful hands.

I’d stared at them a hundred times, when he pushed his glasses up his nose, flipped through case files, signed his name on contracts.

So it didn’t take me long to notice. The wedding band on his ring finger was gone.