Luca’s last birthday request was almost painfully small. He didn’t want presents, fireworks, or a lavish party—he only asked that the three of us share a meal together, even if it was for a single night. But Vittorio, my husband and the Don who ruled the Morrano crime family with iron authority, had never held any real affection for either me or our child. To him, we were responsibilities he had inherited, not people he had chosen to love. I begged him for days until my voice turned hoarse and my pride was stripped bare. Only then did he agree to come, and even that promise was offered with visible annoyance, not sincerity.
When the evening finally came, the Don never showed his face. The candles melted down to waxy puddles, the dishes lost their warmth, and the fragile light in Luca’s eyes faded minute by minute. That same night, my little boy left this world in my arms. His fingers slackened in my grip, and the one thing he had wished for was denied him to the very end.
Everything that followed, I endured alone. I contacted the funeral parlor, chose the coffin, received the visitors, and stood under a dull, overcast sky while my son was lowered into the ground—without the man who was supposed to stand at my side. Only after the burial did I discover the truth that finished what grief had already destroyed: Vittorio had not been tied up with business or an emergency. While his child was dying, the Don was in the snowbound mountains with my sister, Valeria, savoring a carefree night beyond our family’s territory.
When that reality settled into my bones, something inside me went cold and silent. I went back to the house, folded my clothes, collected my personal things, and packed my bags without shedding a single tear. My hands were steady. My face, blank. Whatever I once felt had already been buried with my son.
And only then did fate turn cruelly ironic. The same Don who had abandoned his child and ignored my suffering suddenly came after me, chasing me through the halls, his voice cracking as he begged me not to leave, pleading for forgiveness that had long since lost all meaning.
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It never surprised me that Vittorio would sacrifice everything for Valeria. I had always understood my position in his world—and it had never been at the top. From the start, even before marriage tied our lives together, his heart already belonged to her. I was simply the woman chosen by circumstance, while she was the one he wanted. How could I ever compete with his first love?
After leaving the cemetery, I returned to the mansion that was meant to be our home. The moment I stepped inside, it was obvious how rarely Vittorio stayed there. If anyone had bothered to notice, they would have realized that the Don barely lived in his own residence. For years, it had only been Luca and me breathing life into those rooms.
My son was everywhere. His laughter seemed to linger faintly in the corridors, and his framed photographs still covered the walls exactly where I had placed them. Each step felt heavier than the last. The silence pressed in until I could barely breathe. As I began clearing away our things, I finally broke down. Every toy I picked up, every tiny shirt I folded, every keepsake I touched felt like losing Luca all over again.
I was hauling my suitcase down the staircase, arms shaking with exhaustion, when I suddenly ran into Vittorio. The shock lasted only a second—because he wasn’t alone. He was carrying Valeria in his arms as though she were something priceless. His face was filled with worry, his steps careful and protective. He brushed right past me without a word, like I was a stranger trespassing in my own home. Not once did his gaze meet mine.
I had long grown used to being invisible. Whenever Valeria appeared, I ceased to exist. It had been that way since our youth, back when my old family forged an alliance with the Morrano syndicate. Even then, Vittorio’s attention had always followed her. That was why, years later, he was so stunned when the elders announced that I—not Valeria—would become his wife.
It was only when he noticed the suitcase beside me that he finally paused. His voice was flat, laced with irritation.
“Bianca,” he said coldly, “what do you think you’re doing?”
Valeria wrapped her arms tighter around his neck and turned her eyes toward me, wearing a mask of fragile innocence.
“I’m feeling a little dizzy,” she murmured. “Don Vittorio thought it would be better if I rested here, so he brought me back. You don’t mind, do you?”
It was nothing more than a touch of lightheadedness. Still, I watched as Vittorio carefully set her down on the sofa, his hands gentle as he massaged her temples, treating her like she might break apart at the slightest pressure.
The memory I tried to bury resurfaced. After our wedding, he had never once shown me that same concern. When I had been attacked by a rival crew and came home bloodied and trembling, he hadn’t even come to see me—no matter how much I begged.
His response back then had been cold and detached:
“It’s just a scratch. You’re not dying. Don’t bother me with nonsense like this.”
I was his wife. I was the Don’s woman. And yet none of those titles had ever meant anything to him at all.
