The Don’s Wife Was Never His to Keep

The next morning.

I had the maid send that haute couture gown to Fiora's room.

Fiora made sure to leave her door wide open.

As I walked down the hall, I saw her twirling in front of the mirror. The gown was entirely wrong for her. It swallowed her whole.

She held a pair of sharp silver scissors. Without a second thought, she cut right into the skirt, slicing off the intricate diamond eagle—the ultimate symbol of the Falcone power.

"This gold embroidery is too heavy and old-fashioned," Fiora complained to the maid. "It needs to be shorter. Sexier."

The maid was shaking. She shot a terrified glance at me in the doorway and didn't dare say a word.

I didn't stop. I walked straight to the kitchen.

Santino drank hard last night. He suffers from severe stomach problems. Every time after a hangover, he needs a bowl of specially made herbal tea to soothe his stomach.

For seven years, I’ve personally brewed his herbal tea for him.

I stood by the stove, watching the dark liquid boil in the pot.

It would be the last time I ever made it for him.

I poured the tea into a bone-china cup and carried the tray to Santino's study.

The door was slightly ajar. Through the crack, I heard Santino talking to his Consigliere, Marco.

"Boss, didn't you push it too far this time?" Marco asked. "You took back the Donna ring. The bangle is destroyed. You even gave haute couture gown to Fiora. Arabella has been with you for seven years. She’d take a bullet for you. Are you really trying to drive her away?"

I froze in my tracks.

Santino's cold voice followed immediately.

"Where could she possibly go? She's an orphan who can't even remember her own past. She has nowhere to go but by my side."

"I've spoiled her far too much these past seven years, and her temper's only gotten worse. Fiora is emotionally unstable, and she must learn to back down."

"Once she's thoroughly learned her lesson and behaves herself, I'll naturally reserve a room for her and make sure she wants for nothing."

Marco sighed."By humiliating her like this, aren't you afraid she'll truly lose all hope?"

Santino let out a scornful sneer."Lose hope? Arabella's greatest skill in life is clinging to me like a vine. She can't leave me."

The tray tilted in my hands.

A few drops of scalding tea spilled onto the back of my hand.

The skin instantly blistered red.

But I didn't feel a thing.

I stared at the heavy wooden door for a second, then set the tray down on the console table in the hall.

I picked up the cup I’d spent two hours brewing and walked to the end of the corridor.

A pot of Santino's favorite black tulips sat by the window.

I flicked my wrist and poured the tea straight into the dark soil.

Right then, Fiora walked up to me. She was wearing the butchered dress.

She watched me empty the cup, a smug smirk twisting her lips.

"Arabella, Santino was just telling me that the master bedroom has better light and a nicer view. It would be good for my recovery."

She paused for effect. "He wants me to move in tonight. Shouldn't you be packing up your things to make room?"

The master bedroom of the Falcone estate. I had lived there for five years.

It was filled with traces of my life with Santino. Every inch of it breathed him.

I looked at Fiora's smug face and nodded.

"Fine. I'll pack now."

My calm acceptance seemed to bore her. The triumphant smirk on her face faltered. She opened her mouth to say more, but I was already walking away.

Back in the master bedroom, I looked around the space that had been mine for five years.

My paintings hung on the walls. Our photo sat on the desk. The closet was full of gowns he'd had made for me.

Everything here was a witness to the love we once shared.

And now, it would all belong to Fiora.

I took out a simple canvas bag. I packed a few paintbrushes, a passport, and my most precious pigments.

Nothing else. I didn't want any of it.

My phone vibrated.

A message from my brother, Matteo.

"All social traces of the 'Arabella' identity are being erased. Bank accounts, social security, all official records."

I carried the canvas bag out of the master bedroom and went straight to the storage room.

It was cold and damp, filled with the smell of mildew, but it was quiet.

Quiet enough to block out any sound I didn't want to hear.

I spread a thin blanket in a corner and sat down.