The Don’s White Gown

Alessia Valentini was madly in love with Matteo Carbone.

He was the Don of the Chicago Carbone family and her father's most trusted ally—a man twelve years her senior.

The first time they met, he gave her a white gown for St. Lucia's Day.

At twenty, when his enemies drugged him in his own home, she saved him. Clad in that same white gown, she stepped into the darkness of his fevered haze and became his cure.

That single choice destroyed everything.

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1

Alessia Valentini was madly in love with Matteo Carbone—a man twelve years her senior, her father's ally.

The first time she saw him, he wore a perfectly tailored black suit that framed his broad shoulders, his presence alone silencing the room. He smiled, ruffled her hair, and handed her a white gown for St. Lucia's Day.

In the blink of an eye, she was twenty. He was drugged by his enemies at a banquet. She wore that same gown and offered herself to him.

The next morning, they lay tangled in the sheets, the acrid scent of sex and stale cigars hanging heavy in the air.

Matteo's childhood sweetheart, Bianca Rossi, froze at the door before fleeing, her eyes blurred with tears. She never saw the shootout erupting at the street corner.

She was killed instantly.

From then on, Matteo changed.

He buried Bianca with an eerie calm. He then married Alessia with the same cold detachment. Every night, he took her with a cold detachment—indifferent, empty, as if fulfilling a grim duty. Each time she conceived, he forced her to the family's private clinic, ensuring the child would never be born. Again and again, until the eighteenth time, when a rival family's attack killed them both.

Lying in a pool of her own blood, her life fading, she heard him yelling into the phone.

His voice was glacial. "Protect the other one! Is she dead yet? Call me back when she is."

In that moment, she finally understood.

He hated her. He hated that she had been his cure. He hated that Bianca had died because of her.

As the heart monitor flatlined, a single, agonizing thought consumed her: It wasn't worth it.

And then—she woke up.

Back in the same hotel suite. Back on the night Matteo was drugged.

Alessia gasped. Matteo lay on the bed, his shirt half-open, his usually harsh features softened by the drug-induced fever.

This was the moment. The moment that had ruined everything. The moment she had thrown herself at him without a thought for the consequences.

But now, she knew the truth.

Matteo and Bianca had always been deeply in love.

They had just never said it aloud—until she came along and tore them apart.

Perhaps fate had taken pity on her. Perhaps she had been given a second chance.

This time, she had only one goal: to ensure Matteo and Bianca ended up together.

She grabbed a burner phone and sent an anonymous message.

Ten minutes later, Bianca burst in, breathless.

Alessia grabbed her hand. "He loves you. And you love him."

"But neither of you has ever said it. He's been drugged—this is your chance."

Bianca hesitated, staring at her as if she were a madwoman.

"You've been obsessed with Matteo for years," Bianca scoffed. "And now you're just going to... what? Hand him over to me? Why should I believe you?"

Alessia let out a dry laugh. Yes, it was no wonder Bianca was suspicious. The entire Chicago underworld knew how infatuated she was with him.

She used to think love was about possession.

That if she just held on long enough, she could force her way between them.

But that wasn't love.

She shook her head and whispered, "I don't love him anymore. And I never will again."

A low, strained groan echoed from the room.

There wasn't much time.

"If you don't go in there now," Alessia said, her voice firm, "you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

Bianca wavered, then bit her lip. "Then what are you still doing here? Planning to listen at the door?"

Alessia flinched but stepped aside.

The moment Bianca reached out to caress Matteo's cheek, Alessia shut the door and disarmed the temporary security lock.

Soft gasps, broken whispers, the rustle of sheets—faint, yet unmistakable.

Every sound was a bullet, shattering the last remnants of her former self.

She collapsed to the floor, her heart a hollow ache. Tears streamed down her face, but strangely, a sense of relief seeped into her very bones.

Finally, she was free.

Alessia wiped her tears and stumbled back to her own room.

Next door, Matteo and Bianca lost themselves in each other, all hesitation forgotten.

Alessia didn't sleep a wink.

At dawn, her satellite phone rang.

It was her father, Marco.

"Alessia, would you like to come live with me in New York?"

A few years ago, when the Valentini family expanded their European operations, Marco had moved abroad alone.

Worried he wouldn't have time to care for Alessia, he had entrusted her to his ally, Matteo.

The arrangement had lasted for several years.

Later, she fell in love with Matteo. So even after Marco's power in Europe was stable and he asked her to join him, she refused.

But now, Matteo and Bianca were finally together.

It was time to let go.

She took a deep breath. "Papa, I'm ready to leave Chicago."

There was a silence on the other end of the line. Then, Marco's voice boomed with relief. "Alessia, you've finally come to your senses. I always told you that boy was no good for you. A man like that... it was never going to end well."

"There's nothing wrong with falling in love, but you must choose the right person. I've already found a fiancé for you—a good match from a family of equal standing."

"When you get to New York, spend some time with him. Think of it as a family alliance; it will do you no harm."

Alessia's already swollen eyes burned anew.

In her past life, he had tried to persuade her, but she hadn't listened. And she had wasted everything because of it.

She clenched her fists and forced a smile.

"Papa, I'll do whatever you say. I'll start the arrangements to leave today."