The Last Thing the Don Expected Was Divorce

"Good afternoon, ma'am. You just walked out of Boston City Hall looking absolutely radiant. Any special occasion to celebrate?"

"I'm getting divorced."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Would you mind telling me what happened?"

"He's been bedding his late right-hand man's sister. In my art studio, on my yacht, across my private study desk, and even on the grand piano in our living room. He thought I didn't know."

"I can't imagine how much this hurts. I'm so sorry for what you're going through. Where are you heading now?"

"The hospital. Prenatal checkup."

...

The interview went viral within hours for her calm, unflinching recounting of the betrayal and the shocking contrast between her glamorous mafia wife identity and her devastating situation.

It didn't take long for netizens to dig out my identity, and the entire world now knows the woman in that video is me.

Elena, Donna of the Moretti family.

Three years ago, Vincenzo Moretti, the undisputed Don who ruled Boston's underworld with an iron fist, threw me a wedding that made headlines across the nation.

Back then, everyone envied me, calling me the luckiest woman alive.

But now? That interview had been online for nearly two days, and Vincenzo was still lost in his little love nest.

By the time Vincenzo finally bothered to watch the video his men had forwarded to him,

I was already in New Zealand.

The whole world knew I was leaving Vincenzo Moretti.

He was the last person on earth to find out.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. You just walked out of Boston City Hall looking absolutely radiant. Any special occasion to celebrate?"

"I'm getting divorced."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Would you mind telling me what happened?"

"He's been bedding his late right-hand man's sister. In my art studio, on my yacht, across my private study desk, and even on the grand piano in our living room. He thought I didn't know."

"I can't imagine how much this hurts. I'm so sorry for what you're going through. Where are you heading now?"

"The hospital. Prenatal checkup."

The interview went viral within hours for her calm, unflinching recounting of the betrayal and the shocking contrast between her glamorous mafia wife identity and her devastating situation.

It didn't take long for netizens to dig out my identity, and the entire world now knows the woman in that video is me.

Elena, Donna of the Moretti family.

Three years ago, Vincenzo Moretti, the undisputed Don who ruled Boston's underworld with an iron fist, threw me a wedding that made headlines across the nation.

Back then, everyone envied me, calling me the luckiest woman alive.

But now? That interview had been online for nearly two days, and Vincenzo was still lost in his little love nest.

By the time Vincenzo finally bothered to watch the video his men had forwarded to him,

I was already in New Zealand.

The whole world knew I was leaving Vincenzo Moretti.

He was the last person on earth to find out.

...

"Three working days, Mrs. Moretti. We'll contact you when the visa is ready."

I tucked the paper into my coat pocket and turned to leave.

The whispers followed me like shadows, sharp and breathless.

"Did she just say Moretti? The Don's wife is leaving Boston?"

"She can't be. He'd burn the city to the ground before he let her walk away. Remember the hit two years ago? Some idiot took a shot at her outside the opera house. He had every member of the Irish mob in Southie executed."

"And last spring when her car got keyed? He bought the entire parking garage and had every attendant's hands broken. She has twenty-four-seven security detail, three made men rotating shifts. Where are they now?"

A cold, bitter laugh escaped my lips.

Once Vincenzo had kept an army between me and the world.

Now he couldn't even be bothered to notice when I slipped out alone.

I'd dismissed my detail that morning with a lie about visiting my mother's grave, and they'd left without a second thought.

The Don's attention was elsewhere these days.

Everyone in the family knew how Vincenzo "worshipped" me.

I still remember the night we met.

It was at a charity gala at the Museum of Fine Arts.

For three months, he sent a dozen black roses to my apartment every morning.

He bought me a penthouse studio overlooking the Charles River.

For my twenty-fifth birthday, he closed down Symphony Hall and had the Boston Philharmonic play only my favorite compositions, just for the two of us.

When my parents were gunned down by a corrupt police captain who'd been shaking down their restaurant, Vincenzo walked away from a two-billion-dollar deal to take over the New York waterfront.

Three days later, the captain's body was found floating in the harbor with a bullet in his brain.

"Elena, no one will ever hurt you again. I'll burn the world down before I let anything happen to you."

Back then, I believed him.

I gave him my heart.

But love can't change the blood in a man's veins.

Ten months ago, Marco, his underboss and oldest friend, died in a shootout with the Colombian cartel.

Vincenzo swore he'd take care of Marco's little sister, Lila.

He moved her into the guest wing of our mansion, gave her a black American Express card, and told the family she was under his protection.

We had been trying for a child for over two years with no success, and the family's pressure had been mounting by the day.

Then I found a diamond earring in my studio, lying on the floor next to my easel.

Then I started noticing the late nights at the"warehouse,"the secret phone calls, the way he flinched when I touched his phone.

That's when I knew. This time, I wouldn't stay.

I pushed open the front door of the mansion, and the sickly sweet scent of jasmine hit me like a fist to the gut.

There they were.

Vincenzo was standing on a ladder in the grand foyer, stringing crystal garlands above the marble fireplace.

Lila was below him, handing him the strands.

The door clicked shut behind me.

Vincenzo froze, then turned slowly, that familiar warm smile spreading across his face—the same smile that had once made my knees weak.

"Elena, amore. You're home early. I thought you were at the gallery all day. I was planning a surprise for your twenty-eighth birthday."

Surprise.

My eyes dropped to his neck.

There it was, bright and purple against his olive skin—a fresh hickey, staring back at me like a taunt.

My chest tightened, but I kept my face blank.

Lila's giggle cut through the silence.

"He's been working on this since six this morning, Elena. Even if your birthday is still a few days away！ He even had the florists fly in your favorite black roses from Amsterdam. Look at all the presents!"

She gestured to a mountain of wrapped boxes in the corner.

My gaze followed her hand, and I saw the indentations of two bodies on my couch.

So this was love. They'd slept together there, right next to the birthday gifts he'd bought me.

The pain spread through my chest like wildfire, but I didn't flinch.

I just stood there, watching him, as he walked over to me with a velvet box in his hand.

He opened it, revealing a stunning sapphire necklace surrounded by diamonds.

"Happy birthday, my love. I booked the entire top floor of the Top of the Hub for dinner tonight. Just the two of us."

As Vincenzo spoke and moved in to hug me, my stomach turned violently, and I began to dry heave.

Vincenzo shot up instantly, his face pale with panic.

He grabbed his phone and called three private doctors.

The doctors fussed over me, taking my temperature and checking my pulse. One of them leaned in, pressing a stethoscope to my stomach, and his expression shifted.

I tensed up, my heart racing as he opened his mouth to speak.

"This looks like—"

A sharp ring from Vincenzo's phone cut him off.

He glanced at the screen, cursed under his breath, and stepped out of the room to take the call.

When he came back, he was already grabbing his jacket. "I have an emergency at the docks. I'll be back as soon as I can."

As soon as the door closed, I grabbed the doctor's arm.

"Don't tell him about the pregnancy. My birthday is in a few days. I want to tell him myself as a surprise."

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The baby growing inside me wasn't just a surprise for him—it was the final “gift” I'd give him before I walked away forever.

Later that night, I woke up again, my throat dry and scratchy.

I slipped out of bed and walked down the hallway to the kitchen.

And froze.

The door to the guest wing was wide open. Moonlight streamed through the windows, illuminating two naked bodies tangled in the sheets.