The Don’s Regret

For six years, I took bullets for him and erased every sharp edge of myself. Because of the way he protected me, outsiders all believed I was the woman closest to his heart.

However, when I asked for just one sincere “I love you”, he laughed and refused.

“Mafia marriages aren’t about feelings. Know your place.”

Then he said, “If Sophia doesn’t like it, don’t even bother.”

When the bomb countdown hit thirty seconds, my don husband shoved me aside without hesitation and ran out holding Sophia in his arms.

Only then did I understand that after six years of entanglement, I wasn't even worth a single hair of his sister.

I slammed the divorce papers into his face.

“I’m going to personally send you and your precious sister straight to hell!”

The nine hundred and ninety-ninth time I tried to get closer, I was still pushed away by his coldness.

This was my second year married into the Corleone family.

After hesitating for nearly half an hour, I finally called my brother, Marco Rossi.

My fingers clenched around my phone until they turned pale, and my voice was stretched tight with exhaustion.

“Marco, I want to end the marriage alliance.”

“I told you he’s a piece of ice you can’t melt!” Marco’s sharp voice came through the line. There was a faint sound of fingers tapping against a table, unable to hide his concern.

“You chased him from twenty to twenty-six, handled family affairs for him every day, and even took a bullet for him. He didn’t even say thank you. Was it worth it? Come back to Sicily. The family’s casinos and ports still need you. Isn’t that better than being wronged in Chicago?”

“I’ll finish handling things here,” I said softly. Then I hung up and stood.

As I passed the underground armory, the low murmurs from inside made me stop.

That voice belonged to Vincenzo Corleone. However, it was unusually soft.

I gently pushed the door open a crack and saw him standing beside a velvet chair. His black suit jacket rested on his arm, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms. In his arms was a lifelike doll.

A doll identical to Sophia Corleone.

The almond eyes, the pink lips, even the beauty mark at the corner of her left eye were exactly the same. The skirt was embroidered with daisies—the same pattern I had helped Sophia choose last year.

His fingers brushed repeatedly over the doll’s eye. His voice was hoarse as he said, “Sophia, I still can’t quit you.”

This was the third time I had witnessed this scene.

By now, all that remained was numbness, my heart frozen solid.

I remembered our first meeting at Marco’s family birthday banquet. Vincenzo wore a black suit, and the Corleone gold badge was pinned at his collar.

While everyone else talked business, he sat alone, a glass of whiskey in front of him.

As he looked at me, his dark eyes were deep like