The Don's Broken Vow

The next afternoon, I met the De Luca family lawyer, Michael, and formally demanded the return of all Conti family holdings.

Michael stared at me like I’d grown a second head.

“You want to pull every legitimate business from the De Luca portfolio?”

“Yes.”

“But… under your management, their value has quadrupled. Why would you—”

He stopped when he saw my face.

I remembered two years ago. Alessandro holding me on the balcony of our penthouse, the Chicago skyline spread out before us.

“See all those buildings?” he’d said. “Half of them came from my guns and my gambling dens. But without you, they’re just dirty money.”

He kissed my neck. “You’re my secret weapon, Valentina. I’d be nothing without you.”

Back then, I believed him.

I used my Ivy League degree to wash every dirty dollar he made.

Gun money became tech stocks. Drug money became real estate.

I built him a goddamn empire.

“Mrs. De Luca?” Michael’s voice pulled me back.

“Do it. I want everything on my desk by tomorrow.”

After confirming the procedures, I walked out.

The moment I got in my car, my burner phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number. With a photo.

Francesca. Naked in Alessandro’s bed. His arm thrown over her. Both of them asleep.

The message underneath:He wore me out last night. So worth it.

I thought about all the other times.

Francesca always did this. Sent me photos. Videos. Voice memos.

The lipstick on his collar. The earring in his car. The hickeys on his chest.

Before, it would have made me scream.

Alessandro and I would fight. Break things. Hit each other.

And every time, he’d shut me up with a harder fuck and the same words.

“She’s just a hole to me. You’re my wife. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

Alessandro thought I’d never leave. He thought I was trapped by the alliance. By love. By fear.

He was wrong.

When I got back to the De Luca compound, the butler, Marco, greeted me with a nervous look.

“Ma’am… Miss Francesca is here. She’s in the Don’s study.”

I stopped walking.

That room. Dark wood walls. His grandfather’s guns on display.

When I first married Alessandro, he never let me in there.

Until one night he got drunk, dragged me inside, and bent me over his desk.

“This room is ours,” he’d whispered, fucking me slowly. “No one else will ever set foot in here. I swear.”

Now Francesca was in there.

Probably on her knees under his desk.

“Marco,” I said.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“The rules have changed. From now on, she can do whatever she wants.”

I walked toward the master bedroom. Each step felt lighter.

The divorce papers, signed by Alessandro himself, burned a hole in my bag.

From downstairs, I heard Francesca scream. That fake, theatrical sound.

Then Alessandro’s deep laugh.

I thought about him signing those papers last night, distracted, already thinking about Francesca’s mouth.

He never even read them.

Because it never occurred to him that I would leave.

For four years, I had swallowed every betrayal. Every humiliation. Every broken promise.

He thought I would swallow forever.

He was wrong.

There wouldn’t be a next time.