The Don Begged Me Back? Too Late

In the world of crime family, Don Damian and I were known for two things: him for running wild, me for standing by him.

Everyone knew I was crazy about Damian.

It started when we were kids. I was born with a congenital heart defect. My parents couldn't afford the surgery and chose to walk away.

Back then, Damian was just a street-level errand boy whose father had gambling debts. He had no standing, no money, nothing.

But to raise cash for my surgery, he volunteered for the most dangerous work the Coronelli family had, the kind where each job was a gamble with his life and every payday came in blood.

He clawed his way up. The Don eventually took him in as an adopted son, and I became his wife, just like I'd always hoped.

But ten years into our marriage, Damian stopped coming home.

I'd sit alone at a table of cold food, calling him over and over. Sometimes a woman's voice would answer in the background. He had a private lounge at the family's club, and there was never a shortage of company.

My best friend Vincent couldn't understand it. "Is it worth it? He doesn't love you anymore."

I just smiled. "He gave me my life. I know he still loves me."

Then Vincent forwarded me an encrypted video.

A girl in a hospital gown sat on a hospital bed. At the edge of the frame, a hand with sharp-knuckled fingers reached into the shot, a hand wearing the family crest watch. Their fingers were intertwined.

The caption read: [My hero promised to marry me once I'm better!! yay!!]

I stared at the screen for a long time.

That watch. I knew it cold. It was the one I'd fastened it onto his wrist myself more times than I could count, and there was no way I was wrong.

I knew that watch. It was the one Damian never missed a family meeting without. I couldn't be mistaken.

Vincent's next message came through: "That's Damian, right?"

"He's out here planning to marry someone else and you're still playing the loyal wife he doesn't deserve."

Vincent never softened his words. But I knew he meant well.

And honestly, I already knew.

Damian had gone five years barely sleeping to pay for my surgery. Days collecting debts for the family. Nights doing wet work. Early mornings at my hospital bedside. All of it for me.

Back then I'd made myself a promise: this man bought my life with his blood, and no matter what happened, whether he wanted me or not, I'd never let go.

I looked down at the photo on my phone.

The girl was maybe eighteen, nineteen. Pretty face, pale enough to look fragile. Honestly, she reminded me a little of my younger self.

I closed my eyes, then opened the messaging app. Damian's thread.

Three hours ago I'd sent him a dozen messages: was he coming home tonight, should I keep dinner, was