The Don’s Broken Vow

I’ve been in love with the Don of the Moretti family for ten years, and everyone knows he loves me more than life itself.

In seven days, he’s throwing me a massive, grand wedding that will be live-streamed to the entire world.

But I’m the only one who knows the truth: he’s been keeping a mistress behind my back.

He’s kept her for two whole years, and he’s lied to my face for just as long.

I didn't call him out on it. Instead, I planned a fake death.

At our wedding in seven days, he’s going to lose me forever.

"Mrs. Moretti, here is your 'fake death' protocol.

Are you absolutely certain you want to plummet from Soul-Breaker Cliff into the Atlantic, right in front of the cameras during the global wedding broadcast in seven days?"

In the backroom of a Brooklyn speakeasy, I sat across from "The Cleaner"—the underworld’s premier specialist in erasing identities.

"Yes," I replied calmly, my fingertip tracing the cold surface of the liability waiver.

"Once the process begins, the name Elena Moretti ceases to exist.

You’ll lose all protection from the Moretti family. You won’t even have a legal ID to your name."

"I’m certain."

As I stepped out of the bar, the massive LED screens in Times Square were tirelessly looping a proposal montage that had every woman in America swooning.

The man in the video was the current Don of the Moretti family: Dante Moretti.

Dressed in a bespoke suit, those hands—the same ones that had pulled triggers countless times and held the power of life and death over the East Coast—were now trembling slightly as they held a massive pink diamond.

"Elena, you are my weakness and my armor. Marry me, and I’ll give you all of New York as a wedding gift."

Tourists stopped in their tracks, letting out collective gasps of awe.

To them, this was a romantic fairy tale between a mob boss and his childhood sweetheart.

Standing in the shadows, my lips curled into a cold, mocking smirk.

The whole world thought he loved me to the bone, that I was his only vulnerability.

But only I knew that for two whole years, he had been hiding a fragile college student in a private villa out on Long Island.

I opened my phone and tapped into an encrypted cloud album.

Inside lay the evidence I’d intercepted through the family’s intel network.

“Dante, you were such a beast last night, My legs are still sore. If you don’t take me to that new French place, I’m never talking to you again!”

And Dante, the man who was cold-blooded and ruthless at any negotiation table, had replied instantly: “My fault, baby. Picking you up tonight.”

In the photos, those hands that had touched me a thousand times were gripped tightly around the waist of a girl named Sophia.

The look in his eyes—a raw, frantic obsession—was something I hadn't seen in all our ten years together.

"Elena? Didn't I