Leaving the Don: A Mafia Wife's Revenge

I'm ten years older than Vincenzo Corleone.

He had just turned 23 years old when he took over the Corleone family as the patriarch. A hint of teenage childishness could still be seen etched onto his youthful features.

I was the one who held his hand and helped him calm the turbulence of his family affairs.

I blocked three assassination attempts that were made on him. I used five years of my life to help him grow from a useless scion into the fearsome don who wielded the utmost authority in Nowork's underworld.

Once, Vincenzo had embraced me in the church. He rested his forehead against my palm as he swore, "Age, identity, or the world's viewpoint of us will never stop us from being together, Freya. I will protect you with my life."

But after that, he told his older brother, Marco Corleone, "Freya is too old. She's already 38 years old; I can practically smell the rot of age rolling off her. Even the crinkles in her smile disgust me to no end."

Some time later, Vincenzo found himself a mistress who bore some resemblance to me. She was young and vibrant—like a white rose who had never experienced the ugly side of society.

While Vincenzo gave me the title of the Donna of the Corleone family, he reserved his gentle, doting, and even passionate side for the mistress named Lina Marino.

Vincenzo thinks he can pull everything off flawlessly. What he forgets is that the reason why I can establish my reputation in the underworld isn't because of his protection. I've been relying on my ruthlessness and my sharp sixth sense this whole time.

When I slam the signed divorce agreement onto the spot before Vincenzo, I say with a smile, "You've fought by my side for so many years, so you should know very well that I can afford to go for high-stakes risks and withdraw my chips whenever needed.

"But once I lose, someone here has to pay the price!"

The sixth sense of a woman who moved among underworld forces was normally inseparable from vigilance.

While Vincenzo Corleone was handling business in the study, his personal phone vibrated once.

It was an encrypted number with no contact name.

When the screen lit up, I caught a glimpse of the message preview. The two words read, "Miss you."

Vincenzo reached to turn off the screen almost instantly, his gaze flickering momentarily. Then, he returned to his paperwork, as if nothing happened.

That momentary hesitation was all I needed to confirm that he was cheating on me.

My hand was unnaturally steady as I held the coffee mug, yet my fingertips had gone white from the pressure.

When Vincenzo went down to the basement armory to inspect the weapons, I unlocked his phone using the password I'd obtained with my hacking skills.

From the encrypted number, I found the woman in a hidden social media app.

Her profile picture is a photo of her taken by