Five years ago, he sealed our marriage with a tattoo.

My family’s falcon, inked over his pulse.

A promise. An end to the war.

Yesterday, he carved it out with a blade.

His old flame is back.

He flaunted her at our family celebration, then brought her into our home.

He thinks I'll swallow my pride for our sons. For the alliance.

He's wrong.

I have three tickets to Italy waiting.

One for me, and two for our heirs.

He ended our alliance in ink and blood.

I'll end him with fire and ash.

————————

1

For the third time, Marco came home reeking of whiskey and blood.

When his Underboss delivered him to me, he leaned in and whispered, “The Don is haunted by an old ghost, Donna Milania. He needs you.”

“Every man has his ghosts, Donna. He is fighting a war in his own head.”

Sprawled on the sofa, Marco’s eyes were bloodshot as he slurred, “What ghost? I forgot her years ago. I have a wife, I have sons… How could I still be hung up on her? Just get out. I’m not done drinking.”

As he spoke, tears slid down his cheeks.

The Underboss looked deeply uncomfortable, forcing an awkward laugh.

After seeing him out, I turned back to find the room in shambles.

I silently cleaned up the mess and hauled him into the bedroom. I didn't bother making him coffee or trying to sober him up.

When I returned to our room, Marco was sound asleep.

He must have been dreaming. His hand shot out, clutching at the empty air as he rasped, “Isabella… I erased it. All my loyalty is for you. Please… don’t go…”

On his wrist, the tattoo of my family's falcon crest was a mangled, bloody ruin.

I peered closer and saw he had scraped it with a blade until it was unrecognizable.

In that moment, the last thread of duty I felt for our alliance snapped.

I remembered the first time he’d gotten this drunk, just two weeks ago.

His Underboss had dismissed it as him tying one on after a firefight and asked me to be patient.

That night, he said nothing, but he woke in the dark, his tears soaking a corner of the pillow.

The second time, he clung to me, weeping, repeating it all night: “You are my only loyalty. Nothing can ever shake that. I love you. I will only ever love you.”

But by the third time, the crest on his wrist was gone.

That was the tattoo he had hired the best artist in the city for, to prove his loyalty.

As the needle bit into the flesh over his pulse, Marco hadn't even flinched.

He had simply smiled at me when it was done.

“From now on,” he’d said, “the only mark on me will be a Falcone.”

But now, that mark had become a stain he would mutilate himself to remove.

I activated the hidden surveillance system in the study, then closed the door, leaving him to his rage like a caged beast.

The next day at noon, Marco came downstairs wearing a long-sleeved shirt.

In the sweltering summer heat, he shifted uncomfortably under my gaze before finally sighing.

“Milania, don't read into it. I got hurt dealing with a traitor. It's just a tattoo, it doesn't mean anything.”

“If it bothers you, I'll get it redone when it heals.”

He looked at me, a hint of exasperation in his eyes.

“Fine. If you’re going to make a scene, then I scraped it off to prove my loyalty is to you, Milania, not your family.”

His eyes darkened, his expression twisting into one of a man deeply wronged.

I spoke softly.

“I understand.”

No matter how convincing the performance, you can't tattoo loyalty back into the bone. Why add more lies to the charade?

A smile instantly spread across Marco’s face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He was clearly waiting for me to be the one to yield.

“That's my Milania. Always so understanding.”

He placed a kiss on my forehead, his tone light.

“I’m staying in tonight. I promise, I’ll be home early for you and the boys. Wait for me.”

Watching his retreating figure, my heart sank into the pit of my stomach.

Today was the anniversary of the alliance between our families.

Ever since our marriage had solidified his position as Don, he had treated this day as sacred.

Every year, he would prepare for it like a military campaign, hosting a grand party to display the Moretti family’s respect and loyalty for all to see.

He had once told me, “Our alliance is the cornerstone of my life. All the turf and all the deals are nothing compared to you.”

But now, the haste in his stride was undeniable.

By the time I had lulled the twins to sleep, the house had long since fallen into the silence of late night.

Marco, who had promised to be home, hadn't sent a single message.

My stomach felt hollow. I aimlessly picked up my phone and opened the estate’s security app.

The screens of the digital photo frames were all blank.

I froze for a moment, then repeatedly closed and reopened the app.

The result was the same.

A bitter laugh escaped me.

Those frames had once been filled with pictures of me and our sons.

At every celebration, every party, he placed our photos in the most conspicuous spots. The entire underworld knew he was a doting husband, a man obsessed with his wife.

But now, there was nothing.

It wasn't until the sky began to lighten that the bedroom door was gently pushed open.

My eyes met Marco's searching gaze.

I said nothing. Neither did he. He simply showered and then lay down beside me.

I could feel the ragged, uneven rhythm of his breathing. He remained silent, and so did I.

The next day was the annual Feast of San Gennaro.

I meticulously prepared the children's formal wear and gifts for the elders. They were all dressed and ready, excitedly tugging at my arm.

Just as we were about to leave, Marco stopped me.

“My love, I know you’re not feeling well. It would be more dignified for you to rest. I’ll take the boys.”

His eyes held no guilt, only a command that couldn't be challenged.

Almost without waiting for my response, he had the bodyguards usher the children away.

The boys began to cry and fuss. He reprimanded them with a flicker of impatience.

“Your mother is unwell. If you love her, you’ll let her rest.”

The door slammed shut. My stomach roiled. I lay down, trying to close my eyes and find some peace.

Just then, an anonymous message lit up my phone.

【Loyalty was just a tool to fool your father. If I so much as crook my finger, he'll come crawling back like a dog. You don't believe me? Watch.】

The accompanying picture was taken from the passenger seat of Marco's armored car.

Through her carefully chosen angle, I could even see the innocent faces of our twin sons in the rearview mirror.

My heart seized.

I didn't know what to think, what to do. My body reacted before my mind.

I changed my clothes and rushed out the door without a second thought.

The panic that churned within me on the way there died the moment I arrived at the celebration and saw Marco sitting at the Moretti family’s main table with another woman.

I could never forget her face.

Isabella Rossi. His old flame. The woman who had nearly cost him everything.

Five years ago, she had abandoned him for a better offer, marrying into a Chicago family. Marco had fallen into a deep depression, nearly being cast out by his own father.

I had investigated him before our wedding, so I knew the story.

But at the time, our families were bleeding from the turf war, and the Morettis’ offer was too good to refuse. For my family, I had to marry him.

In truth, from the very beginning, I was prepared for him to never forget her, to never love me.

A rushed wedding. A loveless couple. A tasteless ceremonial wine.

I remember the chilling indifference in Marco's eyes that day.

I knew my duty was to produce a Moretti heir, not to wish for a fairytale.

As my thoughts drifted, they were flooded with memories etched so deep they felt real.

In the early days of our marriage, he was a ghost, lost in his depression. As his wife, I stayed by his side, dutifully helping him manage family affairs.

Until one day, during an assassination attempt by a rival family, my body moved before my mind could, and I shoved him clear.

The bullet grazed my arm, and blood began to flow.

He was stunned, then pulled me behind him with a furious strength.

That night, we were both bandaged up. In the family clinic, as our two bandaged forms locked eyes, a laugh escaped me. He echoed it, and then his laughter dissolved into tears.

From that day on, he stopped mentioning her and began to build a life with me.

My father was pleased, and his support for the Moretti family grew stronger.

A year into our marriage, I became pregnant with twins.

Marco was ecstatic. He immediately transferred half of his casino shares into my name and christened his new yacht Milania.

I remember the warmth of his hand as he caressed my belly, and I remember him crying as he told me, “I will love you. I won't let you down.”

Eight months later, I suffered a difficult birth, hemorrhaging badly.

He knelt outside the operating room, trembling as he swore, “Just let them be safe. Mother and sons. I’ll give anything.”

As the words left his mouth, the string of prayer beads he’d kept for Isabella—the ones she’d left behind—snapped in his hand, scattering across the floor.

As they broke, a laugh of pure relief escaped him.

“For the rest of my life,” he’d vowed, “I'll cherish my wife and children. Nothing else matters, as long as they are safe.”

But now, with our children beside him, he was gazing at another woman with that same fire, that same reverence.