Shortly after we said "I do," the Family sent my husband, Dario, down to the Mexican border.

He told me it was a meat grinder down there—cartel territory. where guys were zipped into body bags every day. He said he had to go—to expand the territory, for the glory of the Family.

He claimed it was too dangerous and that his enemies would paint a target on my back, so he wouldn't take me with him.

I believed him. I stayed behind in his old, rot-infested house in New Jersey, taking care of his bitter, spiteful parents. I spent my days and nights in the Family's moldy laundromat, washing bills stained with blood.

He told me he sent every dime he made down there to the widow of a brother who took a bullet for him. He asked me to be understanding.

I never complained. Day after day, I pressed expensive suits in that humid laundromat, waiting for him to come home.

It wasn't until the eighth year that a mobster came back drunk.

When I asked about Dario, he froze, then sneered at me through a haze of alcohol.

"Dario? Are you kidding? He’s been a King in Manhattan for years. He’s the youngest Underboss of the Corleone family."

I stood frozen, the iron in my hand burning a hole right through a shirt.

"And he got married seven years ago. Biggest cathedral in New Jersey. Half the mob was there to toast the groom..."

He pulled a crumpled photo from his leather jacket.

Snuggled up against my husband was a woman in a high-end couture gown—the very same "poor, widowed sister-in-law" he had told me about.

The next day, I contacted a fixer who specialized in fake IDs.

On the application for a one-way ticket to Europe—a ticket to vanish off the face of the earth—I filled in the fake name I had prepared long ago.

He trapped me for seven years with a sham marriage.

From now on, I’d be done with this damn loyalty.

I had just gotten back to the dilapidated red brick house and hadn't even hidden my passport yet.

The front door was kicked open. A woman dripping in jewels and wearing a vintage Chanel suit stormed in and slapped me hard across the face.

"You look like a beggar, yet you still try to play the mistress? You deserve to die!"

I crashed to the floor, taking the table with me. A bottle of cheap whiskey shattered, and glass shards sliced into my hands, covering them in blood.

Only then did I see clearly. This crazy woman was Sofia—the "widowed sister-in-law" who had been playing house with Dario in Manhattan for seven years.

Seeing she was about to kick me with her red-bottomed heels, I ignored the pain, scrambled up, and shoved her away.

The door opened again, and the figure I had dreamed of for years walked in.

Dario, dressed in a bespoke handmade suit, rushed forward and caught Sofia as she pretended to faint.

"Sofia, are you okay?"

He turned, those once-loving blue eyes now staring at me with a sinister chill.

"Why did you hit her? Apologize to your sister-in-law! Now!"

Clutching my bleeding arm, I looked at this man wearing a Patek Philippe watch, swallowing my heartbreak to speak.

"Dario, we haven't seen each other in almost eight years, and the first thing you do is bring your lover to my turf to act wild?"

"She broke into my home and hit me. Was I supposed to kneel and let her beat me?"

Only then did Dario notice the blood on my arm and the swelling on my face.

His mask of the cold, ruthless Underboss cracked for a second. He pushed Sofia aside and started walking toward me.

"What the hell happened?"

Sofia, arrogant just a moment ago, immediately reddened her eyes, clutching his arm like a frightened deer.

"Dario, as soon as I walked in, I saw this woman sneaking into your bedroom. She looked like the cleaning lady, so I thought she was a thief! I was just so anxious. That's why I accidentally touched her."

She cried, her tears sparkling against her massive diamond earrings—cheap theatrics, but effective.

"You looked so old and tacky; I didn't realize you were Dario’s wife. My dear Elena, if you're mad, hit me back. But you can't spread lies about me and Dario. That’s an insult to the Family's honor."

"You clearly just said..."

I frowned, about to expose her, but Dario cut me off coldly.

"Enough, Elena. You're in the wrong, too. If you had gone to the door to greet Sofia properly, how could she have mistaken you for a thief?"

Dario cleared his throat, switching to a smooth, manipulative tone I didn't recognize.

"This is Sofia, the widow of the brother I told you about. I came back to take you, Mom, and the kids to Manhattan to live the good life."

"Sofia was kind enough to come help with the move. How could you have such dirty thoughts?"

"Apologize to her. That’s the rule."

I looked at the man in front of me, who was reeking of expensive cigars, and turned to walk to my room without a word.

"How about this? I'll have Elena make you an authentic Italian feast to make amends.

"Don't you love Seafood Risotto? I'll have her make it right now."

Dario flashed an apologetic smile at Sofia, then roughly grabbed me and shoved me into the greasy kitchen.

Ignoring my struggles, he threw a bag of live, wriggling lobsters onto me right there.

"Make a good meal for Sofia. Don't embarrass me."

Bang. Dario locked the door from the outside.

I threw myself against it, pulling the handle, but it wouldn't budge.

Outside, I heard Dario’s gentle voice coaxing Sofia.

Inside, the cold, hard shells of the lobsters dug into me. I sat helplessly on the floor.

Seafood Risotto. I made it best.

But the truth was, I hated handling seafood. The fishy smell made me want to retch; it reminded me of washing the blood out of cash in the laundromat.

Dario used to love it. But when he was young, he was nearly drowned in a fish hold during a dock war, and since then, the smell terrified him.

After we married, to help him overcome his fear, I learned this dish from a top chef in Chinatown.

Every lobster had to be deveined and shelled—delicate, painful work.

Whenever I finished, my hands would be covered in cuts from the shells, red and swollen for days.

Back then, Dario would kiss my fingers, swearing that once he became a Made Man, he’d never let me step foot in a kitchen again.

But now? He had probably long forgotten the boy who swore to protect me with his life.

While I was lost in thought, Dario unlocked the door and walked in.

Seeing the mess on the floor, he paused.

Then, he sighed and picked me up, like I was a petulant child.

"Why haven't you started cooking? Are you throwing a tantrum?"

He chuckled, taking out a first-aid kit to bandage my wound, his movements terrifyingly practiced.

"I already apologized to Sofia for you. She’s generous; she let it go. You're just being paranoid. Sofia and I are completely innocent."

"I know you've suffered here. Once we get to Manhattan, I'll make it up to you. I'll buy you diamonds, furs, whatever you want."

With that, he rolled up his silk sleeves, grabbed a lobster, and began to butcher it with expert skill.

I watched his back, words dying in my throat.

He used to refuse to open a can, saying hands meant for killing couldn't hold a kitchen knife.

How did he become more skilled at gutting a creature than a coroner after over eight years away?

In the end, I said nothing.

The fake ID was already in my pocket. I had already decided to vanish.

Dinner tasted like ash.

Sophia flirted with him openly.

"Oh, my hand hurts from when she pushed me, feed me, Dario."

"Oops, let me get that sauce off your lip." She licked her thumb, then looked at me with wide, innocent eyes. "Habit. Don't overthink it, Elena."

Dario kept glancing at me. Seeing me silently cutting my meat, head down, his eyes darkened.

After dinner, I tried to escape to the church, but my mother-in-law—that greedy old bat—dragged me to the master bedroom.

"Stop acting like a saint," she hissed, eyes gleaming with greed. "Go get pregnant. Tonight. We need a spare heir."

I walked into the bedroom.

Dario was sitting at the old desk, stiff as a corpse. The air was thick with tension.

He looked up, his gaze like a loaded gun.

In his hand was a folded piece of paper.

My flight confirmation. And the divorce papers.

My ears rang.

He slammed the papers on the desk. Bang.

"What is this?"

He laughed, a cold, sharp sound.

"No wonder you acted like a zombie today. I'm flirting with Sophia, and you don't even blink."

"You already lined up your next mark, didn't you? Planning to divorce me and run?"

"You? A simple Jersey girl going to Europe? Who's taking you? Which Family is he from? How long have you been screwing him?!"

It was laughable. He lived in a Manhattan mansion with another woman for seven years, and he was interrogating me?

I walked over calmly and took the papers back.

"I was going to Europe to find a specialist for your mother's illness."

"The divorce papers? Those are for Maria next door. She asked me to print them. Her husband hits her."

Dario scrutinized me, searching for a lie. Seeing my face remain stone cold, the murderous rage slowly faded, replaced by that suffocating arrogance of a made man.

"I knew it. A traditional woman like you? You waited eight years. You wouldn't dare leave me."

I looked him dead in the eye.

"Dario. If you ever betray me, if you have another family... I won't just divorce you. I will vanish. You will never find me."

"I waited because I am your wife. Not because I am a fool."

"So tell me, Dario. In eight years, have you ever betrayed me?"

He froze for a second. Then he smiled, that charming, lying smile, and took my hand. His palm was rough with calluses from handling guns.

"Why bring this up? We have honor."

"How could I betray you? If I did, may God strike me down in a hail of bullets."

He raised his hand to swear, but his eyes didn't look at the crucifix on the wall.

If I hadn't met that drunk mobster, I might have believed this devil.

Now, I just felt sick.

"Elena, you are the only woman I recognize. When I was bleeding out at the border, your photo kept me alive."

"I climbed the ladder for us. To make you the Don's wife."

"Come to New York. No one will ever touch you again."

I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye.

"Okay."

Dario, since you can lie to God, I can lie to you.

That night, we lay in the same bed.

He reached for me. I turned away.

After the second time, he sighed in frustration and gave up.

I dreamt of the past. Him on his beat-up Harley, sharing a stolen pizza. Him giving me his leather gloves in winter.

The open-air cinema showing The Godfather. He whispered, "One day, I'll give you a wedding in Sicily just like Michael Corleone's."

Turns out, the bride in that wedding was Sophia.

Morning came. I walked out to find the family at the table.

My mother-in-law looked guilty. Sophia was leaning on Dario, swirling red wine like she owned the place.

They had told the old woman.

I poured myself black coffee.

"Elena," Dario commanded. "I'm selling this house. It was your dowry, so I need your signature."

I gripped the mug.

"I found a penthouse in Manhattan. Selling this dump covers the renovation costs."

Sophia giggled. "Sister, we picked the Jacuzzi specifically... oops, Dario, stop pinching me."

She smirked at me. "Don't worry, Elena. I tested the mattress for you. It's very soft."

I stared into my coffee.

"Fine. Sell it tomorrow."

Dario looked surprised at my submission.

I stood up, walked to the wall, and took down our engagement photo—black and white, taken in a cheap booth.

I dropped it into the trash can.

Dario lunged, grabbing my wrist. "Are you crazy? Why are you throwing that away?"

"If we're selling the house, we should clear out the trash," I said, my voice flat.

Ignoring his complicated stare, I grabbed the necklace on the coffee table—made from the casing of the first bullet he ever fired, a memento he gave me years ago—and tossed it in the bin. Clink.

I didn't stop until every piece of sentimental junk was in the trash.

Dario tightened his lips, then forced a smile, trying to rationalize my actions.

"Right. You're thinking ahead. In New York, we'll do a real wedding. Hollywood style. We'll get everything brand new. This old stuff is useless."

"Go pack."

I went to the bedroom and closed the door.

A few minutes later, my mother-in-law pushed the door open.

Her eyes were red. She tried to take my hand, guilt written all over her face.

"Elena, don't blame Dario. Sophia's family... they are powerful. He had to do it to rise in the ranks..."

"I know it hurts you. We failed you."

I pulled my hand away, cold.

"Don't say it, Ma. I don't blame him. It's just business."

Her lips trembled as she tried to comfort me. "Don't worry. No matter how many wildflowers are outside, you are the only one I recognize as his true wife!"

"I promise you, Dario will take care of you."

I chuckled softly. "Understood."

I sent her away and started packing.

I didn't have much. Just a small leather suitcase.

At the bottom lay a red velvet coat. Dario had spent his entire savings on it when we first got married.

I remembered his apologetic face back then:

"Elena, wait for me. When I make real money, I'll buy you couture from Paris. You'll look like a movie star."

I pulled the coat out and threw it on the bed like a dirty rag.

It belonged to Dario. I didn't want it. Carrying it made me feel filthy.

The door swung open. Sophia walked in. She picked up the coat with two fingers, making a disgusted noise.

"You wore this cheap thing when you got married? Pathetic."

"Do you know what I wore? Custom Vera Wang. Dario said his greatest wish was to see the woman he loved in the most expensive dress."

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms.

Seeing I didn't respond, she gloated.

"You didn't really believe that 'widow' story, did you? How naive."

"When he got shot at the border, I hid him in my father's villa. I nursed him back to health. He said seeing me gave him the will to live. He proposed as soon as the bullet was out."

"He said the only reason he didn't dump you sooner was guilt. Because you were a free servant for his parents."

"Oh! Wait! That little ceremony in that run-down chapel? It has zero legal standing. Legally, I am his wife. You? You're just the mistress."

She laughed, her body shaking. "You didn't know? We are legally married. He registered it to protect me. And I'm carrying his seed! The heir!"

She stepped closer, her voice sharp.

"I tolerate you, you peasant, so you should be kneeling in gratitude. Selling your house to pay for my renovations? Even your dowry should be mine by rights!"

She snatched the gold bangle from my wrist.

"Trash like you doesn't deserve gold."

My heart slammed against my ribs. I looked up, furious.

"Give it back! That was my mother's legacy! Not Dario's!"

"Who knows if you're stealing it to pawn it!"

Sophia shoved me hard. "Uneducated trash. No wonder you cling to him like a leech."

I saw red. I raised my hand and slapped her across the face.

"Enough! Shut up!"

But my hand never touched her again. A steel grip clamped onto my wrist.

"Elena!"

Dario shoved me away with terrifying strength. I stumbled back, falling hard. The back of my head cracked against the table corner. Darkness flickered in my vision.

Beside me, Sophia launched into an Oscar-worthy crying performance.

"I just wanted to help her pack... I admired her bracelet... and she called me a whore! She said I seduced you..."

Dario looked at me with disappointment and rage. He roared:

"Elena! She just wanted to look at it! How can you be so vicious?"

"Even if she liked it, you should have offered it to her! That is respect for a guest!"

"She saved my life! Don't you know gratitude? Is your head filled with nothing but jealousy?"

Seeing Sophia crying, Dario's face softened into pain.

"Don't cry, baby. It's my fault. You've suffered so much, you shouldn't have to envy anyone..."

"Take whatever you want. I'll give you everything."

I watched as he raided my suitcase—my mother's cross necklace, her ring—handing it all to Sophia.

I struggled to get up, screaming in despair.

"Dario! Those are my mother's! She gave them to me on her deathbed!"

"Give her anything else! Just give those back!"

I begged him, my dignity shattered. "Please!"

Dario looked at me like a cold judge.

"You only care about dead people's junk? You hit Sophia, and you won't even apologize?"

"When did you become so selfish and unreasonable?"

"Apologize to Sophia! Now!"

I knelt on the floor, head bowed, sobbing.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, just give me my mother's things."

Sophia snuggled into his chest, whispering, "I was wrong... I shouldn't have been jealous that she has a husband who loves her..."

Hearing that, Dario looked at her with overflowing affection.

He coldly pried my fingers off the jewelry box, one by one.

"Elena, there is a price for bad behavior. That's the rule."

"These are confiscated. Consider it your apology to Sophia."

The next second, he saw the blood trickling down my forehead. His pupils constricted.

"You're bleeding? Did I..."

He instinctively stepped toward me, but Sophia suddenly clutched him, screaming.

"Ah! It hurts! Dario, my stomach! She pushed me... I think she hit the baby!"

Dario's face went deathly pale. The fear of losing the Heir. He scooped Sophia up and turned to run.

Before leaving, he shouted back at me:

"Elena! Stop the bleeding yourself! Once I make sure my son is okay, I'm coming back to deal with you!"

The roar of his sports car faded. They were gone.

I sat on the floor, slowly wiping the blood and tears from my face.

Looking at the empty room, I started to laugh.

I stood up, snapped my suitcase shut, and placed the signed divorce papers on the table where he couldn't miss them.

This time, I didn't look back.

I grabbed the ticket to freedom and the fake passport. Before the taxi arrived, I vanished into the night.

Goodbye, Dario.

When you realize what I really took, I hope you can still smile in hell.