The Forgotten Wife of the Mafia Boss

Everyone in Palermo knew Alessandro De Luca had a reputation.

He was the Boss of the De Luca family, one of the oldest bloodlines in Sicily — a name tied to the port, the courts, and half the construction contracts in Palermo. Wealth, power, discipline—those things were expected. Romance was not. He didn’t chase women, and he never went back to the same one twice.

Until me.

When we broke up after a brutal argument, he did something no De Luca had done in generations—he stood outside the gates of the Moretti estate, my family home, for an entire day and night. I watched from behind the curtains and never opened the door.

The next day, he came inside the estate kitchen himself. Alessandro De Luca, who grew up surrounded by servants, tried to cook my favorite seafood pasta with his own hands. He burned the sauce. I threw it away without tasting it.

On the third day, he found the necklace my grandmother had left me—something my uncle had sold years ago—and bought it back, paying far more than it was worth, just to return it to me.

At a formal family dinner, in front of elders and allies, he made it clear: No more women. Only me.

It took him a year to win me back. That summer, fireworks lit up the Palermo coastline as he announced our engagement.

I believed he had chosen me.

Until the night of a private gathering at an old harbor estate.

A young woman was being pulled forward in the middle of the courtyard, her dress torn at the shoulder, tears running down her face.

Alessandro went still.

Then he stood up.

He didn’t look at me. He didn’t explain. He just walked toward her.

And something inside me went cold.

I rested my hand over my abdomen.

There was something I hadn’t told him yet.

He broke his word that night.

So I broke mine.

The courtyard of the harbor estate was lit with low gold lanterns and cigar smoke.

It was supposed to be a private gathering—capos, financiers, a few sons of allied families. No press. No outsiders. Just power dressed in tailored suits.

I stood beside Alessandro as he played through the final hand at the long card table. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Men twice his age watched him carefully. When he pushed his chips forward, the table went quiet.

He won.

Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just decisively.

Applause broke out, scattered and respectful.

That was when the entertainment began.

A young woman was pulled toward the center of the courtyard, her heels scraping against the stone. Her dress hung loose at one shoulder, fabric torn slightly. She was crying—softly, not hysterically.

I recognized her before Alessandro moved.

Bianca—Alessandro’s first love.

Someone at the table laughed and said something about debts being settled in creative ways. A few men smirked.

Alessandro went still.

The change in him was subtle, but I felt it. His