I had loved Vincent Volkov in silence for five years before I ever became his wife, and I spent another five years married to him, believing that devotion could eventually turn into affection. To stand beside him openly as Mrs. Volkov, my mother paid the ultimate price. To walk away from him, I lost my daughter.
My mother had served the Volkov estate for most of her life. She was more than a housekeeper; she was practically a shadow to Catherine Marconi, the Don’s wife, tending to her needs day and night. The family trusted her, relied on her, and rewarded her loyalty with steady raises and quiet gratitude.
The night everything changed, she had accompanied Catherine to a private shopping district owned by one of the Volkov affiliates. On their way back, armed men ambushed their car. They were failed businessmen ruined by one of the syndicate’s deals, desperate enough to kidnap Catherine and demand ransom from the Volkov family.
My mother did not hesitate.
An aging woman with no weapon to defend herself, she threw herself in front of Catherine when the car door was yanked open. The kidnappers had not expected resistance from someone like her. In their panic, one of them drew a knife.
She fought them with nothing but her bare hands and sheer will. She stalled them long enough for the Volkov bodyguards and police to arrive. Catherine was rescued unharmed. The kidnappers were captured.
My mother was the only one left bleeding on the pavement.
Catherine’s face had drained of all color. She knelt beside my mother, holding her hand, urging her to stay conscious while they waited for the ambulance. My mother understood that she would not survive. Even as her strength faded, she worried only about me.
She knew I had admired Vincent for years.
With her last breath, she made Catherine promise that I would one day marry him.
Catherine froze when she heard that request. She knew her son’s heart belonged elsewhere. But as my mother’s raised hand trembled and weakened, Catherine clenched her jaw and gave her word.
Through tears, she swore that she would see me wed to Vincent.
My mother died believing she had secured my future.
At her funeral, people whispered that fate had been cruel but generous at the same time. I had lost my only family, yet I had gained entry into the most powerful crime family in the city. They spoke of wealth, protection, status.
None of them understood that I would have traded all of it just to have my mother back.
My father had died when I was young. My mother and I survived by clinging to each other. She never knew that she was my entire world.
On my wedding day, Catherine held my hands and wept openly. “Your mother can rest peacefully now,” she told me between sobs.
I nodded, though my face felt numb and drained of life.
Vincent played the perfect gentleman in front of the assembled capos and allies. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to believe I had found someone who would eventually grow to love me.
That illusion shattered the moment the guests left.
When we were alone, he leaned close and murmured in a voice so cold it made my blood freeze. “You used your mother’s death to secure this marriage. Are you satisfied? The woman I love is not you. I agreed only because my mother insisted. In public, I’ll act as your husband. In private, my heart belongs elsewhere.”
He kept his word. In front of the family, he treated me with measured courtesy. He provided everything a Don’s wife was supposed to have. But our marriage was nothing more than a carefully staged arrangement.
When Sofia was born, he did not smile. He stood beside the hospital bed and said indifferently, “Now neither my mother nor I owe you anything.”
I believed that once he held his daughter long enough, his heart would soften. I thought time would bring him home to us.
Instead, time proved how naïve I was.
After Sofia’s birth, I was the only one who remained trapped in that illusion.
The marriage bought with one life would now collapse because of another.
When I left the Volkov mansion, I returned to the rundown apartment where my mother and I once lived. I brought Sofia’s ashes with me. The cemetery controlled by the syndicate had a three-day waiting period before burial.
On the day of the interment, I had just opened the door with the urn in my arms when a force slammed into me. Someone had kicked me hard enough to knock me to the ground. I barely managed to steady the urn before it slipped.
I looked up and saw Vincent standing over me, fury blazing in his eyes.
Behind him, Roxanne Vega stood flanked by armed bodyguards, her face half-hidden by a white mask.
Vincent stepped over me and entered the apartment without permission, shouting Sofia’s name as if summoning a disobedient subordinate. He kicked open doors one by one, growing more impatient each second when he found no sign of her.
Finally, he strode back to me and grabbed my collar. “Where is Sofia? Tell her to come out right now.”
I tightened my arms around the urn. “You have no right to say her name,” I replied coldly. “Take your mistress and leave.”
My words ignited him.
“Mind your tone,” he warned. “Don’t make me teach you how to speak.”
He continued, “You pushed Sofia into doing something vicious. I was willing to have her apologize, and you interfered. Have I been too lenient with you all these years?”
A chill crept through me. “What are you accusing her of?” I demanded. “As long as I’m alive, you will not lay blame on her.”
For one foolish second, I had thought he might have learned about Sofia’s accident and come to accompany us to the cemetery.
Instead, Roxanne stepped forward, slowly removing her mask.
Her face was covered in red rashes. Tears shimmered in her eyes as she looked at Vincent. “It’s alright,” she said softly. “Maybe Sofia didn’t understand what she was doing. She probably didn’t mean to cause my allergy.”
Her false gentleness only fueled his anger.
“Stop defending that child,” Vincent snapped. “Alessandra put her up to this. She used Sofia to ruin your face.”
My mind went blank.
“That’s your daughter,” I shouted. “What exactly are you planning to do to her for this woman?”
Before I could say more, his hand struck my face. The sting was sharp enough to make my ears ring.
“I told you to watch your words,” he roared. “Has no one taught you manners since your mother died? You encouraged Sofia to pour alcohol into Roxanne’s skincare products. You knew she’s allergic. How could you be so cruel? And now you’re dragging your own child into this mess?”
Rage surged through me. “Sofia is five years old,” I shot back. “Do you think she even understands what alcohol is? It has a strong odor. It evaporates quickly. Anyone would notice. Yet she applied it to her own skin. And you believe this nonsense?”
He shouted over me. “Only Sofia went into Roxanne’s room. There were no servants in the house. If not her, then who? The security footage shows everything clearly. Stop denying it. After I finish questioning you, I’ll hand you both over to the police if I have to. Now bring Sofia out.”
His voice echoed in the small apartment.
He was demanding to see a child who was already ashes in my arms.
