The Don's Ex-Wife Became a Legend

When Vincent heard the word "divorce," it was as if he had heard the most absurd joke in the world.

He rolled over, his rough fingertips sliding across the back of my hand—a gesture he only used when he was trying to coax me. "Tonight was my fault. I apologize, and I'll make it up to you. But I never planned to let you leave."

He paused, his voice dropping with a sense of absolute certainty. "You know as well as I do—we can't get divorced."

"There's an awards ceremony tomorrow night. I've already ordered the finest gown for you. You will be the most beautiful Best Actress in all of America."

With that, he turned and left. His footsteps faded down the hallway, and the door to the adjacent room clicked shut softly.

This wasn't the first time I had asked for a divorce. Not long after we were married, he had slammed a stack of photos in front of me, claiming I had been "tainted" before I married him. From that day on, those photos became a thorn—every time he messed up, he would drag them out again to shut me down.

The first time I demanded a divorce was seven months after the wedding. He had carefully prepared a birthday villa for me. I canceled all my filming commitments and flew back to the estate early, only to push open the study door and find him with the old butler's daughter bent over his desk.

Hearing the noise, he whipped around. Genuine panic flashed in his eyes before he quickly stood up and shielded the girl behind him.

"Baby, it's not what you think..."

I said nothing. I turned and walked out of the study.

In the smoke-filled parlor, Vincent, now fully dressed, came after me, looking uneasy. He grabbed my wrist, his voice lowered. "I'm sorry. I had too much to drink. She kept throwing herself at me, and I thought she was you... I'll send her away right now."

He said it while looking into my eyes, without a shred of real conviction.

To keep me from leaving, Vincent called his lawyer that very night. At three in the morning, he signed a postnuptial agreement in the parlor—one that stated he would be left with nothing if we divorced.

He didn't even read it carefully. He just flipped to the last page, scrawled his signature, and threw the pen on the table. "Give me one more chance. If I betray you again, all of the Corleone family assets go to you. I'll leave with nothing."

I thought of my mother's dying wish—she wanted me to escape the shadow of the mafia completely, win a prestigious award, and live a normal life.

For that fragile hope, I locked the agreement in the safe and gave him a second chance.

Reality slapped me hard in the face. He had hidden that incident for three years, until ten months into our marriage, when the past came crashing down in another form.

That day, I had just finished an event and was looking forward to having dinner at home with Vincent.

In the parlor, he threw a stack of photos at me.

"Three years ago. St. Regis Hotel, Sicily. That night I said I was handling business—but who is the man on top of you in these photos?"

They were a series of explicit photos. The woman in them was definitely me—my face was clear. But the man on top of me? His face was blurred.

I knelt on the cold, hard floor, flipping through the photos as my heart plummeted.

"It's not like that!"

"The person in that room that night was you. You were the one who barged in. You were the one who tore my dress..."

Before I could finish, Vincent's expression twisted in agony.

He clutched his head desperately—the blood clot in his brain was reacting to the stress.

The next second, he collapsed right in front of me.

"Mrs. Corleone, weren't you supposed to keep quiet about what happened back then?" The doctor chided helplessly. "There's still a blood clot in his brain. Agitating him like this was reckless!"

"At least we saved him. You can go see him now."

The scolding hit me like a blow to the chest. I bit the soft flesh of my lip until it bled, regret flooding my chest.

I stumbled out of the doctor's office in a daze and headed toward the VIP ward.

I pushed the door open slightly, about to enter.

Then I saw Vincent propped against his pillows, smiling broadly as he ate an orange that Lena was peeling for him.

In that moment, my heart died completely.

I wandered out of the hospital in a fog, not watching where I was going. I missed a step and fell, blacking out instantly.