My husband, Luca, had a childhood sweetheart named Sophia. Years ago, during a brutal gang shootout, Sophia shielded him from the worst of the bloodshed, and since then, she had suffered from severe PTSD. Because of that, Luca would push aside family business every year and fly to our estate on a secluded island off the coast of Sicily to spend three months “helping her recover.”

“Victoria, she lost her mind because of me,” he told me. “I’m responsible for her. I hope you can be magnanimous.”

So, I nodded. And eventually, I got used to the fact that every year, my husband would disappear for three months to fulfill what he called a moral obligation. That was until the day I flew in without warning to inspect the family’s money-laundering network on that island and saw him.

In the town square, under the bright Mediterranean sun, Luca was standing there with a five-year-old boy by his side.

“Papa, how long do we have to hide on this island?” the child asked. “I want to go to New York. I want to see the Empire State Building.”

Luca laughed gently and scooped him up in his arms. With his other hand, he held Sophia’s.

“Antonio, be good,” he said affectionately. “Papa’s position is… complicated. When you turn eighteen and pass the family’s initiation ceremony, I’ll kill that woman and her dead old man. Then, I’ll take you back to New York to inherit the entire Corleone family.”

I stood in the shadows, unseen. Slowly, I lit a cigarette. The smoke curled around me as their voices drifted over, the conversation getting more vicious as it went.

Sophia leaned into his chest, her tone sweet and coy. “Luca, I’ve been with you for seven years without a name or a title. How much longer are our son and I supposed to live like ghosts?”

Luca sighed. “I don’t have a choice. The old man in the Corleone family is still alive. I married Victoria just to get her territory. Don’t worry. I’ve been adding something to her milk every day. She’ll never get pregnant in this lifetime. My family bloodline will only continue through you.”

The last thread of reason in my mind snapped. In the six years of marriage we shared, I had been infertile. I’d taken countless hormone injections to stimulate ovulation. I’d knelt in church and prayed more times than I could count. Yet, all along, the devil poisoning me was my own husband.

The initial shock faded quickly into rage. I crushed out my cigarette and pulled out my phone. Then, I dialed my uncle, the family’s clean-up man.

“Uncle Rocco,” I said calmly, “Luca betrayed me. He betrayed the family. Order a coffin in the finest black walnut for me, and make it large, large enough to fit a family of three.”

After hanging up on Uncle Rocco, I stared at the dazzling silhouettes of that so-called family of three in the square in Palermo. A cold smile curled at the corner of my lips.

Once, I had truly believed I would be the only woman in his life. I was the Principessa of the Corleone mafia family. Growing up, I got whatever I wanted. If I asked for the wind, I was given a storm. Yet, for Luca, I put away every sharp edge I had. I folded my pride, softened my temper, and became a wife who stayed home and waited for him to return.

I dreamed of children. I dreamed of growing old together. I dreamed of a house with just the two of us, together three meals a day, and all through the changing seasons. However, only after seeing that scene with my own eyes did I realize that six years of devotion were all a joke.

My father, Antonio Corleone, was a man the entire New York underworld respectfully called “Godfather.” He built the Corleone empire from nothing. Every dock, every port, and every prime stretch of real estate in the city—half of it bore our name. He was ruthless, decisive, and a man who made no mistakes.

Yet, with me, he was different. He never let me stain my hands with blood or witness the darkness of the world we lived in. He raised me proud, clean, and untouched by the grime of the streets.

He used to say, “My daughter should live in the light. She should never have to dirty her hands.”

However, Luca had mistaken that protection for weakness.

That very night, I flew back to New York. Three days later, Luca finally returned home. He pushed open the door, looking travel-worn and tired. The scent of another woman’s perfume still clung to him.

“Victoria, I’m sorry,” he said. “Sophia’s episode was bad this time. She knelt in the rain, begging God for forgiveness. I couldn’t leave her.”

He looked exhausted, like a loyal, honorable man torn by responsibility. Meanwhile, I sat on the velvet sofa, with a glass of red wine in my hand, my eyes filled with gentle concern.

In the past, I would have rushed to him. I would have helped him out of his coat and asked if he’d suffered any injury. Yet now, all I felt was irony.

“Poor Sophia,” I said softly. “God will protect her. You must be exhausted. Go take a shower.”

I saw the relief in his eyes.

When he stepped forward, trying to kiss my forehead, I tilted my head slightly and took a slow sip of wine.

“You’re covered in sweat. Go on,” I urged him.

He froze for a second and then chuckled. “Alright. Whatever my wife says.”

As I watched him walk into the bathroom, the warmth in my eyes vanished instantly.

Once, I adored that tenderness. I thought he respected me and cared for me. I believed I had married a rare, good man. Now, all I could see was that he wanted my father and me dead to inherit everything the Corleone family owned. However, he forgot one thing: I was the Godfather’s daughter, and ruthlessness ran in my blood.

The sound of running water echoed from the bathroom. I picked up his suit jacket and searched the pockets with practiced ease. Inside the inner lining, I felt a neatly folded piece of paper.

I unfolded it to see that it was a child’s crayon drawing of a strong man holding hands with a long-haired woman and a little boy. Next to them, written in words, read, “Papa, Mamma, and I, on top of the Empire State Building.”

In one corner of the drawing, a figure had been scribbled over in thick black crayon. Holding it up to the light, I could faintly make out what had been covered. It was a woman in a red dress, lying in a pool of blood, and that woman was me. So it seemed the five-year-old illegitimate son, Antonio, had already been taught how to erase me from the picture.

A sharp pain pierced my chest. Even breathing hurt. That last fragile piece of hope—one I hadn’t even dared admit I still held—turned to dust.

“Victoria? What are you looking at?”

Luca walked out, wrapped in a bath towel.

Calmly, I crumpled the drawing into a ball and tossed it into the fireplace beside me. The flames devoured that “family portrait” in seconds.

“Nothing. Just some scrap paper,” I said lightly. “Oh, by the way, Uncle Rocco mentioned that Papa hasn’t been feeling well lately. He’s thinking of handing over part of the family’s core operations to you.”

The caution in Luca’s eyes instantly turned into unrestrained joy.

“Is that true? Does the Godfather finally trust me?”

I smiled. For my act, I deserved an Oscar for Best Actress.

“Of course,” I replied gently. “After all, you’re the only son-in-law of the Corleone family and my most beloved husband.”

To show his so-called sincerity, Luca began leaving early and coming home late, throwing himself into family business like a man possessed. Every single night, without fail, he would bring me a cup of hot milk.

“Victoria, I had a doctor adjust your prescription,” he’d say gently. “It’ll help with conception. Drink it while it’s warm.”

Once upon a time, I used to cradle that cup like it was a treasure. I believed it tasted like love. Now, all I could smell was poison.

I took the glass from him and pointed toward the window.

“Luca, what’s that outside?”

The moment he turned his head, I poured the milk into the thick rosebush by the window.

“What? There’s nothing there,” he said, turning back.

By then, I had wiped the trace of milk from the corner of my lips and handed him the empty glass.

“Maybe I imagined it,” I said. “I’ve been dizzy lately.”

Luca took the cup. A flicker of satisfaction flashed across his eyes. It happened so fast that most people would have missed it.

“It’s okay. Once you keep taking the medicine, you’ll feel better soon. And when you’re pregnant with our child, the Godfather will be ecstatic.”

He was still putting on an act. What he didn’t know was that I had replaced every surveillance system in the house with a private line. Every call he made to Sophia from his study was now backed up to my cloud server, word for word.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmured one night. “That old man doesn’t have much time left. Victoria’s health is also getting worse. The doctor says she has premature ovarian failure. There’s no way she can get pregnant. Once I secure control of the port, I’ll bring you and Antonio over. The Empire State Building? I could buy it for our son as a toy.”

I sat on the other end of the surveillance feed, listening calmly. The sweet words that once made my heart race now felt like blades sliding under my skin.

Did he really think the intelligence network my father built from nothing was just decoration? Did he really believe the Corleone family couldn’t see what he was doing? Well, if he was so eager to bring that mother and son into my home, how could I not lend a helping hand?

The very next day, under the name of the Corleone family’s Principessa, I sent formal notices to several luxury boutiques on the island. The message was simple: freeze all of Sophia’s credit cards. After all, they were issued under my supplementary account. I’d like to see how long “true love” could last without money.

Sure enough, in less than three days, Luca grew restless. He paced back and forth in his study, his voice lowered but furious.

“How could it be frozen? That’s Victoria’s card… D*mn it! She probably just forgot to make a payment. Don’t cry! If Antonio wants caviar, just get it! I’ll figure out a way to transfer the money to you!”

Figure out a way? Every single dollar in the Corleone family flowed through systems I controlled. If he wanted to touch public funds, he’d need my authorization.

That night, Luca tested the waters.

“Victoria, have there been any changes to the family accounts on the island recently?”

I was trimming a black, thorny roses I replied, “Yes, Uncle Rocco reviewed the books. There were some questionable expenditures, so he froze all supplementary cards for now. Why? Do you need something urgently?”

Luca’s face stiffened, and he waved his hands quickly. “No, no. I was just asking.”

I snipped the rose cleanly at the head, allowing the bloom to fall onto the table with a dull thud.

“Good,” I replied. “Those cards are for family members only. If outsiders use them, they lose their hands.”

Luca instinctively pulled his hands into his sleeves.

Sophia was even more impatient than I had imagined. Once her money was cut off, she actually smuggled herself and the child into New York.

Luca hid them in an old apartment in Brooklyn. It was a rundown place he had bought years ago, back before he married into the Corleone family and when he was still nobody.

“Victoria, I’ve got an important business dinner tonight. I won’t be home.” He adjusted his tie in front of the mirror as he lied, not daring to meet my eyes.

In the past, I would’ve reminded him to drink less and to come home early. Now, I just found it laughable.

I stepped forward and straightened his collar for him, my fingers brushing over his carotid artery. Beneath my fingertips, his pulse beat steady and strong. However, I knew that his heart no longer belonged to me.

“Go ahead,” I said evenly. “Don’t drink too much.”

The moment he walked out the door, I changed into a long black trench coat. The dark fabric wrapped around me, sealing in every trace of emotion. Uncle Rocco was already waiting. The black sedan sat quietly in the courtyard.

Rocco had been my father’s most loyal underboss since they were young. He’d followed him through gunfire and bloodshed for half his life. He only recognized the Corleone name, answered to my father, and protected only me.

As for Luca? In Rocco’s eyes, he was nothing more than an outsider who climbed up through marriage. Luca was not worthy of his attention.

“Principessa, are you sure you want to go in person?” Rocco asked, polishing the revolver that had accompanied him for decades. His voice carried the firm protectiveness of a man guarding his own blood. “That kind of place will dirty your shoes.”

“Some shows are only worth watching if you see them live,” I replied calmly, my eyes devoid of warmth.

The Brooklyn apartment had terrible soundproofing. The thin door couldn’t block the chaos inside. I stood outside and heard every word clearly.

“This is the luxury home you promised? Luca, there are rats here! Antonio was scared to tears!”

Sophia’s voice was sharp and shrill. There was no trace of the fragile, traumatized woman everyone talked about, but only greed and bitterness.

“Just endure it! Endure it!” Luca snapped, exhaustion and irritation bleeding into his voice. “Victoria’s watching everything closely right now. Do you know how ruthless her father is? If she finds out, we’re finished!”

“I don’t care! I want a big house! I want to shop on Fifth Avenue! I hid on that damn island for seven years. I’m done living like I’m poor!”

“Papa, I want McDonald’s. It smells bad here… I’m scared…”

The boy’s crying blended into the shouting, a chaotic mess of noise. I imagined Luca caught in the middle—stressed, overwhelmed, and pulled in every direction. A strange satisfaction rose in my chest. Yet, beneath it all was sorrow.

Was this his first love, the woman he could never forget? Was this the one he chose over me and our six-year marriage, risking betrayal of the Corleone family just to protect her?

Strip away the filter of money, and what remained was nothing but ugliness.

I lifted my hand and knocked on the door. The noise inside stopped instantly.

“Who is it?” Luca called out, his voice tense.

“The landlord,” I answered, my tone cold as ice.

The door opened. The moment Luca saw me, it was as if he had seen death itself. His face drained of color. His body froze in place.

“V-Victoria?”