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.