The Don's Broken Vow

I married Don Alessandro in secret.

The Five Families of Chicago had ruled for generations. And I had married into the most powerful of them.

For four years, Alessandro made me promises. One hundred and twelve times.

And one hundred and twelve times, he left me standing alone.

The first time, his ex‑girlfriend’s father had a heart attack. Alessandro canceled the wedding and stayed with her for three full weeks.

The second time, she crashed her Maserati into a fountain in Monaco. Drunk. He flew there overnight and paid off the police chief personally.

Every time, right before our wedding, she manufactured another crisis.

I begged. I screamed. I put a knife to my own wrist.

Alessandro just laughed, pulled the blade from my hand, and fucked me against the nearest wall.

“She’s my ex‑girlfriend. You’re my wife. You don't need to be jealous of her.”

After the one hundred and twelfth time, I stopped feeling anything.

I pushed a piece of agreement in front of him.“Our marriage. Our alliance. Consider it terminated.”

For the one hundred and eleventh time, Alessandro missed our wedding rehearsal.

This time, it was because his ex, Francesca, had just won a defamation lawsuit against a gossip magazine. A seven‑figure settlement.

She threw a party at the Four Seasons. Penthouse suite. Open bar.

Two hours in, my driver Carlo sent me the first video.

Alessandro stood in the middle of the room, champagne in hand. All the family soldiers circled around him and Francesca as if she were already the Don’s wife.

Someone made a toast. Alessandro kissed Francesca. Full mouth. Tongue. His hands cupped her face like she was something precious.

The room cheered.

Francesca laughed against his lips. Her fingers curled into his shirt.

Then Alessandro picked her up and carried her toward the bedroom.

Before the door closed, I heard her voice.

“You’ve been so busy, baby. I missed you.”

“I’m here now.” His low laugh. “That’s all that matters.”

The door slammed.

Outside, I heard one of his men laugh. “She’s gonna be Mrs. De Luca eventually. We all know it.”

Mrs. De Luca.

I’d been his secret wife for four years. Nobody knew I existed. They all thought that bitch was the one.

I turned off the video. My stomach clenched. I ran to the bathroom and threw up nothing but bile.

I hadn’t eaten in four days.

I had no tears left. This thing had to end.

At 2 a.m., word came that the party was over. I stood at the gates of the De Luca compound, waiting with the documents I’d prepared.

The armored SUV rolled up slowly. Black. Bulletproof. Alessandro’s silhouette behind the wheel.

He got out. Jacket gone. Shirt untucked. Lipstick on his collar.

In the passenger seat, Francesca was curled up like a cat, her dress hiked up to her thighs, bruises blooming on her skin.

She was asleep. Smiling.

“She had too much to celebrate,” Alessandro said when he saw me. Like it was