Chapter 1 – The Brooch
At the most illustrious gala our family hosted all year, my husband—the Don himself, Giovanni—arrived with his secretary, Bianca, draped possessively on his arm.
Pinned to her chest was a ruby brooch—an unmistakable emblem of the Isabella, the acknowledged mistress of the family.
Before I could speak, Giovanni glanced at me, his expression lazy and detached.
“Elara,” he said coolly, “don’t be so small-minded.”
He dabbed his lips with a linen napkin, as if this scene were perfectly natural.
“Bianca shielded me from a bullet. She admired the brooch, so I let her wear it for a while. You’re still the only Isabella. Try to conduct yourself with dignity.”
Bianca’s fingers brushed the ruby as she smiled sweetly, eyes gleaming with provocation.
“That’s right, Elara. The Don said red flatters me more. It’s only a brooch—surely you’re not upset?”
Giovanni gave her an indulgent look, then turned back to me, voice softening.
“If this bothers you, I’ll buy you a larger diamond at next week’s auction. Be a good girl and don’t embarrass me in front of the family.”
I met his practiced tenderness with a silence colder than ice.
We had been married three years. The world trembled at his cruelty, yet he had always treated me with exceptional care.
That changed six months ago—after Bianca threw herself into the line of fire for him.
What began as guilt became indulgence.
On our anniversary, during a candlelit dinner prepared down to the last detail, Bianca called in tears. Her wound hurt. Giovanni left immediately, abandoning the half-sliced cake and me at the table until sunrise.
Last month, burning with a 102-degree fever, I asked him for water. At that moment, Bianca phoned—thunder frightened her.
Giovanni grabbed his coat without hesitation.
“Take your medicine,” he said curtly, already heading into the storm.
He always used the same excuse—she had been injured for his sake, so I needed to be understanding.
I calmly set my knife and fork down.
“If she likes it that much,” I said evenly, “she can keep it.”
I removed my wedding ring and slid it across the table. Alongside it, a divorce agreement I had prepared long ago. Both stopped neatly in front of Giovanni.
“This seat beside you,” I added quietly. “I’m relinquishing that as well.”
His smile shattered. His deep blue eyes darkened, a lethal chill spreading instantly.
“Elara, don’t play games,” he warned. “Are you trying to threaten me in front of the Capi?”
I remained composed.
“I’m serious. Sign it, Giovanni.”
He studied me, searching for flirtation, calculation—anything.
After a long, suffocating silence, he snorted, seized a fountain pen, and scrawled his name across the document.
“Fine,” he said coldly. “If you want to pretend you’re some tragic runaway wife, be my guest.”
He slammed the agreement onto the table, contempt blazing.
“You’re nothing but an orphan. Without the Family’s protection, you won’t survive three days in Sicily. I’ll give you a week before you come crawling back.”
To him, I was merely an ornament—useless without his shelter.
I picked up the signed papers and stood, leaving without another word.
Giovanni didn’t even glance at me. He resumed laughing with Bianca, convinced this was nothing more than a tantrum.
Back at the estate, I retrieved an encrypted satellite phone I hadn’t touched in three years.
Giovanni had never known the truth—I was no orphan.
I was the youngest daughter of the oldest Mafia family in Europe.
To marry him, I had changed my name and severed all ties with my father and brothers.
The line connected.
I closed my eyes, drew a steady breath, and whispered—
“Papa, I made a mistake. Send someone for me in two weeks.”
Chapter 2 – The Last Ember
By morning, Giovanni returned to the estate with Bianca clinging to his arm. They headed straight for the private underground armory.
He spotted my suitcase.
“I’m taking Bianca to the shooting range,” he said, tone careless, dripping with arrogance. “She needs a gun for protection. Still packing? Where exactly do you think you’re going?”
I didn’t answer. I folded another blouse and placed it neatly inside the case.
Bianca, however, walked straight to the glass display and lifted a custom-made gold Beretta—the birthday gift Giovanni had given me last year. I used to practice with it every week.
“Wow, this is beautiful,” she said, turning the gun in her hands. The muzzle drifted deliberately past my forehead as she smiled. “Oops—sorry, Elara. My hand slipped. Since the Don is teaching me, I can borrow this one, right?”
In one fluid motion, I seized her wrist, twisted, disarmed her, and pressed the pistol firmly against her forehead.
My movements were smooth, precise—terrifyingly fast.
Bianca shrieked and stumbled into Giovanni’s arms, trembling violently.
“Don! Help me! Elara is trying to kill me!”
Giovanni’s expression snapped into fury. He grabbed my wrist and tore the gun away, pulling Bianca behind him.
“Elara, have you lost your mind?! She was joking! I know you’re jealous, but there’s a line!”
I flexed my aching wrist and met his glare without warmth.
“A firearm isn’t a toy. If she doesn’t know how to hold one, I corrected her.”
His eyes darkened with malice. To him, I was the unreasonable one.
He turned to a discard bin, rummaged inside, and flung something at my feet.
A Smith & Wesson M10.
My body went rigid.
And now, to soothe his trembling mistress, he threw my trauma onto the floor.
“Stop causing trouble,” he snapped. “Let Bianca keep the gold one. She saved my life. She deserves the best.”
I stared at the revolver as the final ember of affection in my heart died.
Slowly, I bent down and picked it up.
Giovanni mistook my silence for surrender. He opened his mouth—
I turned, walked to the fireplace, and tossed the gun into the roaring flames.
“Elara!” he exploded. This was no longer about a weapon—I had defied his authority. “You burned my goodwill for some outsider? I’ll give you one last chance. Pick it up!”
The firelight flickered across my calm expression.
“I don’t pick up garbage,” I said evenly. “Just like I don’t salvage rotten emotions.”
Then, without hesitation:
“Giovanni, you disgust me.”
It was the first time I had ever spoken to him like that.
He laughed—sharp, furious, unhinged.
“Good. Very good. Since you want to be unyielding, don’t blame me for being merciless. I gave you a way out. You refused it. Don’t come crying when you hit a wall.”
He stormed out of the armory.
Bianca didn’t follow immediately.
She paused at the top of the staircase, stroking the gold pistol with a twisted, triumphant smile.
“Elara, you really don’t understand your position,” she said. “So what if you’re the legal wife? Everyone knows whose bed the Don shares every night. How can a discarded woman like you compete with me?”
I looked up at her coldly.
“You think a secretary who climbed her way up by taking a bullet will stay favored forever?”
Her expression flickered—then twisted into something eerie.
“Forever is all I need.”
Then she leaned back—
—and deliberately hurled herself down the stairs.
“Ah—! Help! Don!!”
Her scream tore through the villa.
Giovanni, who had just reached the entrance, spun around and rushed back in a frenzy.
He saw Bianca crumpled at the bottom of the staircase, blood streaking her forehead. His entire body went rigid.
“Bianca!”
He scooped her into his arms, then lifted his head to stare at me—his gaze colder than death.
“Elara… how could you be so cruel? Out of jealousy, you tried to kill the woman who saved my life?!”
I looked down at the farce unfolding beneath me, feeling nothing but detached absurdity.
“I didn’t push her,” I said flatly.
But my composure only fueled his hatred.
Bianca clutched his collar weakly, tears falling perfectly.
“Please don’t blame Elara… I slipped… Don, don’t argue with her because of me…”
The blade twisted cleanly.
Giovanni’s disappointment curdled into pure hatred.
“Enough. Don’t plead for her.”
Holding Bianca, he passed me and announced coldly:
“My companion for tonight’s annual Mafia Ball will be Bianca. Since you can’t fulfill the role of Isabella, I’ll choose someone who can.”
And with the victor in his arms, he walked away without looking back.
It didn’t matter, Giovanni.
After all, this was the final time I would ever watch you walk away.
Chapter 3 – The Last Time
Giovanni vanished with Bianca for an entire week.
My phone never stopped vibrating.
Bianca sent the first photo: her stretched lazily across the deck of a luxury yacht, wrapped in a bikini so minimal it barely qualified as clothing.
[The Don says only ocean blue suits my eyes.]
[I bumped into something. The Don insisted on treating it himself. He worries too much about me.]
I traced the yacht’s docking location and drove there without delay.
Inside, Bianca—still in that bikini—was curled on Giovanni’s lap, her arms looped around his neck in a pose far too intimate to misinterpret.
“Elara! Don’t—don’t misunderstand! The Don is hurt. I-I was only helping dress the wound on his chest!”
“Aren’t you busy throwing a divorce fit? Why follow me all the way to the yacht?”
I gave a short, icy laugh and tossed the folder onto the table.
“What? If I hadn’t come, how would I know first aid now requires a bikini?”
Bianca shrank behind him, biting her lip like a wronged child.
“Elara, how could you say that… I was just trying to help…”
Giovanni rose abruptly, blocking her from view.
“Enough, Elara. How long are you planning to drag this out?”
He lit a cigar. Smoke curled lazily through the cabin as his face settled into cold entitlement.
“Look at you. Acting hysterical. In my position, which Godfather doesn’t keep women on the side? It’s just physical indulgence—why are you making such a fuss?”
He stepped closer, looking down at me as though granting charity.
“No matter who I touch outside, you’ll always be my only Isabella. That title—wasn’t that the glory you wanted most? Isn’t that enough?”
I stared at the man I had once loved and realized I no longer recognized him.
“Glory?” I echoed softly. Then let out a hollow laugh.
“Giovanni, I don’t want that glory anymore.”
I placed the folder on the table.
“This is the asset division and authority transfer. Sign it. Once you do, I’ll leave—and stop interrupting your… wound treatment.”
He paused, irritation flashing across his eyes.
“Fine. Perfect. Since you want to play this game, I’ll indulge you.”
He didn’t read a single line. Just signed.
“Take your things and disappear. But don’t worry—you won’t last three days before crawling back, begging me to take you in again.”
I left the marina with the signed documents and returned to the estate to collect the last of my belongings.
Three years in that house—yet everything I truly owned fit into one suitcase.
Just as I snapped the suitcase shut, the bedroom door flew open with a violent kick.
“Elara! What did you do to Bianca?!”
The sharp edge sliced my cheek. I looked down.
It was a handwritten letter.
[Don, I’m leaving. Elara warned me that if I don’t disappear, she’ll kill my parents. I don’t want to put you in an impossible position, and I can’t let my parents die. Please take care of yourself.]
Chapter 4 – The Whip
After reading Bianca’s letter, I couldn’t stop myself from laughing.
“You actually believe something this poorly written?”
Giovanni’s hand shot out. He seized me by the throat and slammed me into the wall, his eyes blazing red.
“A lie? She was willing to die for me—what reason would she have to deceive me? But you, Elara… how did I never see how poisonous you are?”
“She has no one backing her. Without the Family’s protection, she’s as good as dead! You’re driving her straight to her grave!”
I didn’t bother explaining. Straining against his grip, I forced out a few words.
“Whether she lives or dies has nothing to do with me.”
“You—!”
His fingers tightened—then suddenly, his phone vibrated violently.
He released me and answered.
Bianca’s shrill screams burst through the line, mixed with gunfire.
“Don! Help me! There are so many hitmen—Elara’s people! They said they’re here to kill me—ah! My leg!”
The line went dead.
Giovanni’s face drained of color, then twisted into something feral.
“Did you leak her location?”
“Elara, you’ve gone too far. If she dies, I’ll make you regret ever being born.”
He stormed out like a raging tempest.
I slid down the wall, fingers brushing the bruises on my neck as laughter tore out of me—so hard it blurred into tears.
Giovanni, you are hopelessly stupid.
If I truly wanted her dead, she wouldn’t have lived long enough to make that call.
My family never leaves witnesses.
Unraveling, every passing hour bled into the next—until Giovanni finally returned.
In his arms was Bianca, drenched in blood.
Her injuries weren’t severe—just a knife wound to the leg. Horrifying at first glance, but no vital artery had been touched.
Giovanni exuded violence. After handing her to the doctor, he turned toward me without hesitation.
“Take her to the torture chamber,” he commanded the bodyguards.
Two enforcers forced me to my knees on the freezing stone floor.
Moments later, Bianca reappeared, her wound neatly bandaged. She leaned weakly against Giovanni’s chest, her steps unsteady.
“Don… please don’t blame Elara,” she sobbed. “Maybe I accidentally upset her…”
She cried like a rain-soaked pear blossom—fragile, pitiful, flawless.
Giovanni looked at her with aching tenderness, then turned to me.
“By Omertà and family law,” he said flatly, “anyone who harms a comrade or colludes with enemies must be punished by the whip.”
He took a leather whip soaked in saltwater from the wall and tossed it at Bianca’s feet.
“You were the one who suffered. You’ll carry out the punishment yourself.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“Giovanni—you’re really going to whip me for this lying woman?”
That whip was reserved for traitors. One strike could tear skin and muscle apart.
Giovanni avoided my eyes.
“This is discipline. You crossed the line, and you must pay for it.”
“Endure it, Elara. Let her release her anger. Then we can move on.”
Bianca bent down and picked up the whip with trembling hands.
“I… I don’t dare… I’ve never hurt anyone before…”
Giovanni clasped her hand gently.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m right here. She owes you this.”
For a split second, something vicious flashed through Bianca’s eyes.
Then she raised the whip—and brought it crashing down.
Crack!
Blinding pain tore through me. Fabric ripped. Flesh split.
I clenched my teeth and made no sound.
“Oh no… my hand slipped… I’m so sorry, Elara…”
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Each lash came harder than the last.
Giovanni stood to the side, watching my blood seep through torn clothing, watching my face drain of color.
His fists clenched. For a moment, hesitation flickered in his eyes.
But when he saw the bandage on Bianca’s leg, he forced himself to remain still.
“This is a warning,” he said coldly. “Never touch my people again.”
Cold sweat streamed down my face. My vision blurred, but I kept my spine straight and my gaze locked on Giovanni.
In that moment, every shred of love I had ever felt for him was shredded—lash after lash—into nothingness.
When Bianca finally tired, she stopped, panting.
Giovanni rushed to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“Do you feel better now?”
She nodded weakly and nestled into his chest.
“The Don treats me so well.”
Lying in a pool of my own blood, watching their entwined silhouettes, I let out a low, broken laugh.
“Giovanni,” I said hoarsely, “you’re going to regret this.”
He glanced at me briefly, discomfort flickering across his face, then ordered someone to bring medical supplies.
He lifted me onto the bed and tried to tend to my wounds, frustration etched into his brow.
“Is this enough now? Do you finally understand that you were wrong?”
His condescending concern made bile rise in my throat.
“Don’t touch me.”
I yanked my hand away and stared at him with lifeless eyes.
Giovanni snapped. He slammed the medical kit onto the table.
“Elara! How much longer are you going to act like this? I already told you—Bianca will never threaten your position. What more do you want? Do I need to rip my heart out for you to believe me?”
“Heart?” I echoed faintly. “Do you even have one?”
That was when I noticed the Glock 17 tucked into his waistband.
In an instant, the hatred I had suppressed for so long erupted violently.
Since he insisted I was vicious—since he accused me of being intolerant—I decided to live up to the charge.
I lunged, swift as a predator, and ripped the gun from his waist.
Giovanni’s face changed instantly.
“Elara! Put the gun down!”
I ignored him.
I flipped the weapon around, gripped the barrel, and slammed the pistol butt straight into Bianca’s head.
“Ah—!”
Her scream was cut short as I tackled her to the floor.
Straddling her like a madwoman, I smashed the pistol into her forehead and cheeks again and again.
“Didn’t you say I wanted to hurt you?” I snarled. “If you want me to be the villain so badly—I’ll make it real!”
Blood splattered across my face. Bianca couldn’t even cry—only broken whimpers escaped her throat.
“Stop! You insane bitch!”
Just as I raised the gun to fire, Giovanni lunged and grabbed my wrist, flipping me off her.
Bang!
My back slammed into the marble wall. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs.
“Pfft—”
I spat out blood, staining the pristine carpet crimson.
Giovanni didn’t spare me a glance.
He scooped up the unconscious, blood-covered Bianca in panic.
“Bianca! Wake up! Get the car ready—now! To the hospital!”
He rushed out with her in his arms. As he passed me, he paused briefly and left me with a sentence colder than death:
“If she doesn’t wake up, Elara—I will bury you with her.”
Chapter 5 – The Child He Never Knew
I collapsed onto the floor, wiped the blood from my lips, stared at the empty doorway—and laughed until tears streamed down my face.
It didn’t matter anymore.
Only three days remained.
A sudden, stabbing pain flared deep in my lower abdomen. Darkness washed over me, and I lost consciousness.
The villa’s front door was kicked open again.
Giovanni burst inside, dragging in the night air and the metallic scent of blood. Two family doctors followed close behind.
His eyes were bloodshot—wild, feral. He strode straight to the bed and yanked me upright.
“Get up. You’re coming with me.”
Pain flooded my body. My mind was foggy.
“Where are you taking me? Let go!”
“Bianca lost too much blood. She’s gone into shock,” he said coldly. “The blood bank doesn’t have Rh‑negative. You have the same type. You’re the only one who can save her.”
The words fell like a verdict—an order he believed he had every right to give.
I stared at him in disbelief and clawed at his arm.
“I won’t go! Why should I save her? She’s my enemy! Giovanni—are you even human?”
“My stomach hurts… something’s wrong with me. I can’t give blood…”
I cried and screamed, clinging to the last shred of his humanity. The pain in my abdomen had been growing for days—something inside me screamed that something was terribly wrong.
Giovanni ignored everything.
He seized my chin, forcing me to meet his merciless gaze.
“She whipped your back a few times—how could that affect your stomach? Elara, are you really inventing excuses to avoid saving a life?”
“A little blood won’t kill you. Bianca still carries old injuries from saving me. If she dies tonight, her death is on you.”
He shoved me onto the narrow sofa and gestured to the doctors.
“Do it. Draw until there’s enough.”
“No—don’t! Giovanni, please… you’ll regret this…”
My voice broke as the doctor approached with a thick needle.
Two bodyguards pinned my shoulders.
The needle pierced my vein.
Giovanni stood aside, lit a cigarette, and watched impatiently as the blood bag filled. His eyes stayed fixed on Bianca’s vitals displayed on his phone.
He never once looked at me.
I watched my blood drain through the tube. The ache in my abdomen sharpened—stretching, tearing—becoming unbearable.
When I woke again, I was in a private hospital ward.
The sharp scent of disinfectant clouded my senses.
Giovanni sat beside the bed. When he noticed my eyes open, something flickered across his face—guilt, perhaps, or relief.
“You’re awake? The nurse says it’s just anemia. Rest for a few days and you’ll recover.”
He reached out to adjust the blanket, his movements stiff.
“Last night was an emergency. I handled it badly. I owe you. I’ll make it up to you.”
Make it up to me?
I was about to laugh when his phone rang.
Bianca’s exclusive ringtone.
His expression softened instantly.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m right next door… okay, I’m coming.”
He hung up without looking at me.
“I have something urgent to handle.”
Then he left.
The moment the door closed, my attending physician entered.
He removed his mask, his expression grave.
“Miss Elara, I’m very sorry.”
“You were pregnant—approximately five weeks.”
“But due to the massive blood loss last night, combined with prior physical trauma and extreme emotional stress… the fetus could not be saved.”
“This is the consent form for the D&C procedure. A family member’s signature is required.”
Boom.
My mind went blank.
I had suspected it—but hearing it confirmed felt like having my heart carved out.
My hand drifted to my flat abdomen.
A life had once existed there.
Giovanni’s child.
And Giovanni had ended it with his own hands.
Tears slid silently as a broken laugh escaped me.
“It’s fine, Doctor.”
I signed the form with trembling fingers.
“No family signature is needed.”
“This child… it’s better he never came.”
“He shouldn’t have a father like that.”
I took a black centurion card from my bag and slid it across the table.
“Please seal this information. Tell everyone I was hospitalized for stress‑induced gastric bleeding. No one is to know about the pregnancy—especially him.”
I stayed in the hospital for three days.
Giovanni never visited once.
I heard he spent every moment at Bianca’s side.
Rumor had it that because of her “injury” and her prior “heroic service,” Giovanni even promised her shares in the family business.
How laughable.
My phone vibrated.
An encrypted message appeared:
[Princess, everything is ready. The private flight route has been approved. The Vercourt Family jet is waiting on the runway.]
Another file followed.
Irrefutable evidence gathered by the Vercourt intelligence network—proof of Bianca’s collusion with rival families, recordings, bank transfers, and the staged shooting six months ago that made her a “hero.”
Without expression, I forwarded the file.
Recipient: Giovanni’s mother—the true Isabella, who tolerated no betrayal.
Bianca wanted to be the Don’s wife?
I wondered how long she’d survive once the truth reached that woman.
I ripped the IV needle from my hand. Blood spilled freely, but I felt nothing.
I changed into a black trench coat and returned one final time to the study of the place I once called home.
I placed the signed Declaration of Secession from the Family and the divorce papers neatly on Giovanni’s desk.
Then, with shaking fingers, I pulled out the crumpled ultrasound slip from my pocket.
I tore it in half and tucked the pieces beneath the divorce papers.
Giovanni—
The game is over.
I pulled my hood low over my pale face, turned away without looking back—
—and boarded the private jet.
Chapter 6 – The Truth He Never Saw
Bianca had recovered enough to cling to Giovanni again, but his restless heart refused to settle. She begged him to stay, voice trembling with practiced fragility, but his patience had finally snapped. He tore himself from her grip and stormed down the corridor toward Elara’s hospital room.
A strange, suffocating unease crawled through his chest—like weeds tightening around his ribs.
As he passed the door to Bianca’s attending physician’s office, he noticed it slightly ajar.
Voices drifted out.
Giovanni froze.
“Just inject me with a bit more of this compound. Make it look like I’m dying… The bitch Elara’s blood will be drained dry soon enough…”
That sharp, venomous voice was unmistakably Bianca’s.
“But Miss Bianca, if we’re discovered—”
“Don’t worry. If anything goes wrong, I’ll take the blame. As long as that bitch Elara dies, I’ll be the only Isabella. You’ll get your cut.”
Giovanni’s blood turned to ice.
In one explosive motion, he kicked the door open.
The crash made both conspirators jump in terror.
Bianca’s eyes met his—and the malicious smile vanished, replaced by sheer panic.
“Don… let me explain…”
He advanced, Glock drawn, pressing the cold barrel to her forehead.
His voice was a blade.
“Explain? Explain how you bribed the doctor? How you risked your life just to make sure Elara dies?”
Bianca collapsed to the floor, grabbing his pant leg, trembling violently.
“I was wrong, Don… I loved you too much… I was jealous of Elara…”
“Get out.”
He holstered the gun, pulled a check from his jacket, and flung it at her face.
“Take the money. Leave Sicily. Never show your face to me again.”
He didn’t spare her another glance.
His only thought was Elara.
He sprinted toward her ward like a man possessed.
But when he threw open the door—
Silence.
“Where is she?” he barked at the nearest nurse.
The nurse paled.
“Don… Miss Elara has already been discharged…”
Gone.
After everything he had done—after all the pain he inflicted for another woman—she had vanished without a trace.
Panic surged through him like a tidal wave.
He grabbed one of the family’s trusted doctors as the man stepped out of surgery.
“Where is she? Why did you let her leave? She was in critical condition!”
Giovanni yanked him by the collar.
The doctor’s hands shook as he handed over a bloodstained surgical record.
“Don… I’m sorry. We did our best… Miss Elara… she had a miscarriage.”
The words detonated inside Giovanni’s skull.
His mind went white.
He snatched the paper with trembling hands.
“The baby… is gone?” he whispered, the words tasting like ash.
A piece of his soul had been ripped out raw.
He shoved the doctor aside and stumbled out of the hospital.
Black armored sedans lined the entrance.
Leaning on a dragon‑headed cane, a silver‑haired woman radiating absolute authority stood waiting.
His mother—the true Isabella of the family.
Before Giovanni could speak, she stepped forward and slapped him across the face.
Smack.
Blood trickled from his mouth.
“You incompetent fool,” she said, her voice calm but heavy enough to crush stone.“Your father nearly destroyed this family for a cheap whore years ago. I thought you were smarter—but you’re even more stupid.”
Giovanni’s head snapped to the side.
“Mother—”
“Shut up.”
Her cane struck the ground.
“Follow me to the interrogation room. I’ll show you the trash you’ve been protecting.”
Like a scolded child, the Don was escorted into a waiting car.
Inside the monitoring room, his mother turned on the screens.
She pulled out an encrypted phone and dialed.
“Hello? It’s done,” she said smugly. “That idiot Giovanni is completely wrapped around my finger. Not only did I drive Elara away, but the brat is dead too.”
Giovanni’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked.
A deep, rough laugh came from the other end—the voice of their family’s mortal enemy.
“Good work, babe. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
Bianca giggled.
“So, when does the final payment hit my account? I suffered a lot to play that ‘damsel saves the hero’ scene six months ago. If I hadn’t worn a Kevlar vest, I might actually be dead.”
“Don’t worry. The money’s yours. You know what to do next.”
“Of course. I’ll stay by his side until I hollow out the entire family…”
The truth slammed into Giovanni like a hammer.
Violence boiled inside him.
He charged toward Bianca’s room, raised his foot, and kicked the door open with a deafening crash.
Bang!
Bianca screamed, makeup kit dropping from her hands.
“Don… you… how—”
Giovanni advanced step by step, eyes blazing red with murderous intent.
Chapter 7 – The Don Who Lost Everything
Bianca collapsed onto the floor, scrambling backward in desperation.
“Don, let me explain… I was forced… they threatened me…”
Giovanni’s mother entered, her expression carved from ice. She slammed a thick bundle of documents and photographs onto Bianca’s chest.
Giovanni’s voice was a low growl.
“Explain?”
The same hand that once played piano to seduce him.
Crack.
Bianca screamed, writhing in agony.
“Ah! My hand! Don, please—I was wrong!”
Giovanni crouched, gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his bloodshot eyes.
“You used these hands to play for me… to plot against Elara… and to betray the Family.”
His tone was soft—almost tender—but colder than hell.
“Since these hands are so tainted…”
He stood.
“You don’t need them anymore.”
A bodyguard handed him a sledgehammer.
“No! Giovanni! I love you! I really love you!”
He swung without hesitation.
By the time he stopped, her hands were nothing but mangled flesh and shattered bone. Bianca slumped unconscious, a broken puppet on the floor.
Giovanni tossed the bloody hammer aside, chest heaving—but the emptiness inside him only deepened.
His mother watched with cool detachment.
“Drag her out. Feed her to the dogs. Clean up the mess.”
She stepped closer, her gaze sharp.
“So what if you’ve purged the rot? Elara is already gone.”
Giovanni froze.
He staggered out of the interrogation room, fumbling for his phone. He dialed Elara’s number again and again.
Off. Switched off.
A text arrived from his lawyer:
[Mr. Giovanni, your divorce proceedings with Ms. Elara have been officially finalized.]
She truly didn’t want him anymore.
He bolted for his car and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The engine roared as he tore down the mountain road.
“Damn it, Giovanni… you’ve gone too far this time,” he muttered, panic rising like a tide.“I’ll get on my knees if I must. Just come back.”
The car screeched to a halt at the manor gates.
He stumbled inside, shouting:
“Elara! Baby! I’m back! We need to talk!”
Silence.
The manor looked as if he had never been married.
“Elara…”
His voice cracked.
On the coffee table lay two items:
His hands shook violently as he picked it up.
Her blood.
The blood he forced the doctors to drain from her.
“Ah—!”
Giovanni, you deserve to die.
Meanwhile, across Europe, a private jet touched down at a hidden airfield in Sicily.
The cabin door opened.
Dozens of black‑suited bodyguards bowed in unison.
“Welcome home, Princess.”
Elara descended the ramp, heels clicking sharply, her expression carved from frost.
When he saw the scars on her wrists and the pallor of her face, he crushed the whiskey glass in his fist.
“Damn Giovanni.”“He used my sister as a blood bag? And he killed her child for a whore?”
Elara sank onto the sofa, exhausted.
“Papa… Sebastian… I’m home.”
“My daughter sacrificed herself for that worthless Isabella out of love.”“Since that bastard cannot cherish her, the Vercourt family owes him nothing.”
Sebastian slammed his sidearm onto the table.
“Pass down my orders!”
His voice thundered through the hall.
“From this moment forward, we are at war with the Giovanni family!”
Cut off all arms shipments. Blockade every port in Naples.” “Anyone who supplies Giovanni is now an enemy.” Sebastian’s voice thundered through the hall, cold and absolute. “I want him kneeling in Sicily’s mud, watching his empire crumble.”
War had begun.
Chapter 8 – The Kneeling Don
And this was only the beginning.
Giovanni’s mother — the once‑untouchable Isabella — stepped out alone.
She looked older. Smaller. As if the weight of her son’s sins had carved years into her bones.
Elara met her in the drawing room.
“Elara… no — Miss Vercourt,” Isabella corrected herself, voice trembling with respect she had never shown before.“I have not come to beg for mercy. I know my son has committed unforgivable acts.”
She placed a thick stack of documents on the table.
“These are the deeds to one‑third of our Sicilian territory, and the control rights to our two most profitable Mediterranean shipping routes.”“This is compensation. I only ask that the Vercourt family spare Giovanni’s life.”
Sebastian scoffed behind Elara.
“You think a few territories buy back a life?”
Isabella inhaled deeply, steadying herself.
“I have convened the Commissione. Giovanni is stripped of his title as Don. From today onward, he holds no power. He is a commoner.”“This is all I can do as a mother.”
Elara skimmed the documents, expression unreadable.
“Fine. As long as he never appears before me again, the Vercourt family will cease their attacks. We are even.”
Isabella bowed her head and left without another word.
But Giovanni did not honor the truce.
That night, a violent storm battered the coast.
Elara stood on the third‑floor terrace of the Vercourt castle, swirling a glass of dark wine.
Below the iron gates, a figure knelt in the mud.
Giovanni.
Rain soaked him to the bone. His clothes hung in tatters. His face was hollow, unshaven — a man stripped of everything.
Beside him lay Bianca — barely conscious, her body limp and broken from the consequences of her betrayal. She could no longer speak, only release faint, pained sounds.
Giovanni dragged her forward and shouted toward the balcony.
“Elara! My Princess! I know you’re watching!”
His voice cracked through the storm.
“I brought her to you! Do whatever you want with her!”“I don’t want the title! I don’t want the family! I only want you!”
He slammed his forehead against the iron bars, rain mixing with the blood running down his face.
“Elara! I was wrong!”
Elara watched him from above, her expression calm, distant — untouched.
Once, a single frown from him could have shattered her heart.
Now, watching him kneel in the mud, she felt nothing but a cold, hollow amusement.
“Sebastian,” she murmured.
Her brother stepped from the shadows.
“Want me to end this?”
Elara took a slow sip of wine.
“No. That would dirty the grounds.”
She turned away.
“Close the curtains. The glass is bulletproof — he won’t disturb my sleep.”
Sebastian descended the steps, ignoring Bianca entirely. His gaze fixed on Giovanni — cold, merciless.
He tossed a silver revolver at Giovanni’s feet.
“Russian Roulette,” he said. “The oldest Mafia rule.”“You want forgiveness? Prove sincerity. Three pulls of the trigger. Survive, and you walk away. Fail, and you fertilize the rose garden.”
Giovanni didn’t hesitate.
He lifted the gun to his thigh.
“This is for my blindness.”
Bang.
He staggered but stayed upright.
He raised it to his abdomen.
“This is for hurting Elara… and for the child I never protected.”
Bang.
Blood spread across his shirt, but he refused to fall.
One chamber remained.
He lifted the gun toward his heart.
“Elara… if I survive… will you forgive me…”
Sebastian stood over him.
“Enough. Take your misery and leave. Don’t stain my sister’s land.”
He turned away, his silhouette sharp against the storm.
“Drag him to a hospital. Don’t let him die at our gates. It’s bad luck.”
Giovanni collapsed, vision fading, staring at the window that would never open for him again.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Chapter 9 – Switzerland’s Quiet Revenge
He glanced out the window, catching sight of Giovanni being hauled away like a broken animal.
“Heartache?” he asked casually.
Elara closed her suitcase with calm precision.
“Heartache? That died on the operating table. All that’s left is disgust. I don’t want to be bothered by a rabid dog anymore.”
Sebastian nodded, satisfied.
“Good. Sicily is chaos. That lunatic will crawl back the moment he can stand. You should go to Switzerland. The lakes will clear your mind.”
“I’ve already arranged it. Lucien will meet me in Zurich.”
Lucien.
The name alone carried weight.
n
Ten hours later, the plane touched down in Zurich.
A man in a beige trench coat approached with effortless elegance.
“Long time no see, my Princess,” Lucien greeted, lifting her luggage and kissing the back of her hand with perfect manners.
He smelled faintly of pine — calm, steady, safe.
“Thank you for taking care of me, Lucien.”
“The honor is mine,” he said, opening the car door. “Sebastian entrusted you to me. My villa is secluded. No one will disturb you.”
The car wound through a private estate on Lake Lucerne — no iron fences, no guards in sight, just tulips and shimmering water.
Lucien showed her the master bedroom with the best view.
“This is your sanctuary,” he said softly. “Here, you don’t need to be the untouchable Isabella. You can simply be Elara.”
For the first time in weeks, her shoulders loosened.
This must have been the “better choice” Sebastian hinted at.
At the secluded manor, days passed like a dream.
Elara, warm with whiskey, finally let her pain surface.
She leaned on Lucien’s shoulder, tears falling freely.
“Lucien… I don’t understand…”“I changed my name for him. I took a bullet for him. I became the perfect Isabella… and what did I get? Betrayal.”
“Was I not enough? Was I too much?”
He took the glass from her hand and wiped her tears with a handkerchief.
His amber eyes held her with quiet intensity.
“It’s not that you weren’t enough,” he said softly.“It was the blind fisherman who mistook a pearl for a pebble.”“You deserve someone who knows how to hold you — not someone who lets you bleed for him.”
Her heart trembled.
Lucien leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.
“Sleep. Tomorrow will be a new day.”
For the first time in months, Elara slept without nightmares.
Sebastian blocked every lead, releasing hundreds of false trails.
Giovanni searched South America, Southeast Asia — even Antarctica — before finally tracing her to Switzerland.
On a bright Zurich morning, he froze at a street corner.
Ahead of him stood the perfect pair.
Jealousy detonated inside Giovanni.
He lunged forward.
“Elara!” he rasped, sounding like a revenant.“Come back with me! The family needs you! I need you!”
Lucien stepped in front of her, eyes cold.
“Mr. Giovanni, Elara does not wish to see you.”
“Get out of my way! This is between husband and wife!”
Giovanni reached for her hand — she slipped away effortlessly.
She stepped forward, her gaze colder than Swiss winter.
“Go back? To what? Lies? Betrayal?”
“Giovanni, stop pretending you’re the devoted lover. Don’t you find yourself disgusting?”
His voice cracked.
“Elara, I know I was wrong! Bianca deceived me — but in my heart, it was always you!”
Her laugh was sharp.
“Deceived? Or did you simply enjoy it?”
Her words cut deeper than any blade.
“Was it easier to choose a weak woman who worshipped you… instead of an Isabella who could stand beside you — or above you?”
“Do you miss me… or the loyalty and usefulness I gave you?”
Giovanni’s face drained of color.
Elara watched him for a long moment — then the last flicker of warmth in her eyes died.
“See? You can’t even lie to yourself.”
She slid her arm through Lucien’s.
“Let’s go, Lucien. The air here is poisoned.”
And without looking back, she walked away.
Chapter 10 – The Night She Stopped Looking Back
But in her peripheral vision, she saw a dark silhouette standing in the relentless rain — unmoving, rigid, waiting.
Giovanni.
She didn’t spare him a single glance.
Inside the villa, warmth wrapped around her like a blanket.
“I’ll make something to eat,” Lucien said, shrugging off his coat and rolling up his sleeves.
Lucien handed her a glass of red wine.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked, eyes warm and steady.
Elara looked through the floor‑to‑ceiling bulletproof window.
“Thinking…” she murmured, “that it would’ve been better if I had never met him.”
She drank deeply, the wine igniting the grievances she had buried for years.
That night, she spoke freely — about the past, the gunfire, the suffocating expectations, the way she had reshaped herself into the perfect Isabella.
It was the first time she had ever felt safe in someone’s company.
Eventually, her eyelids grew heavy.
Lucien lifted her gently, carrying her toward the bedroom.
He laid her on the bed, removed her shoes, and tucked her in.
Just a soft kiss to her forehead.
“Goodnight, Elara. Here, you’re safe.”
Outside, Giovanni stood in the storm all night.
He saw her stumble from the wine, saw Lucien catch her, saw her carried into the room.
Jealousy twisted inside him like a blade.
By morning, the rain had stopped.
Elara stepped outside with Lucien.
“Elara…” he rasped, voice raw and broken.
She paused, turning toward him with a gaze as cold as the Swiss air.
“Giovanni, you’re not dead yet?”
His heart clenched.
He forced a trembling smile.
“Elara… I just wanted to see you. My wound… it hurts…”
Once, even a scratch on him would have sent her into a panic.
He waited — desperate — for even a flicker of concern.
“Hurts? Then go die.”
Giovanni’s breath hitched.
She stepped closer, looking down at him with icy clarity.
“Before, if you were hurt, I would’ve wished I could take the pain for you. But now…”
Her voice sliced through him.
“Even if you died right here, rotting in the mud, I’d only see you as someone blocking my way.”
The words shattered what little dignity he had left.
He collapsed backward into the cold puddles.
In the final seconds before darkness swallowed him, Giovanni saw Elara take Lucien’s arm and step into the car.
She didn’t look back.
Not once.
Chapter 11 – Even the Last Thread Snapped
Giovanni lay in the ICU for a week, drifting in and out of fevered dreams.
rn the operating table.
w
When he finally woke, the room was empty.
a
Only a bodyguard who left a bill on the bedside table before disappearing.
Once discharged, Giovanni didn’t dare approach Elara.
Instead, like a ghost haunting the living, he rented a rundown apartment across from Lucien’s lakeside estate.
His only solace was a telescope.
Through it, he watched Elara plant tulips in the sunlight, her laughter bright and unrestrained — a joy she had never shown in the three years she spent with him.
Lucien stood beside her, handing her tools, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
The simple domestic scene tore Giovanni apart.
But before he could send it, something horrifying appeared in the telescope’s lens.
A figure crouched in the bushes at the edge of the estate.
A crawling shadow.
Bianca.
She had survived.
Giovanni’s chest seized.
No.
He hurled the telescope aside and sprinted downstairs.
At the estate gates, Elara and Lucien were about to enter the car.
From the bushes, Bianca lunged with a feral scream.
“Die! All of you die!”
The gun aimed straight at Elara’s chest.
“Watch out!” Giovanni roared.
He threw himself forward, shielding Elara and Lucien just as the gun fired.
“Giovanni!” Elara’s scream cut through the chaos.
Lucien’s guards reacted instantly, neutralizing Bianca in seconds.
Giovanni collapsed over Elara, breath shallow.
He tried to lift a hand to touch her face, but seeing his own blood, he hesitated.
“Cough… cough…”
He forced a smile through the pain.
“This time… it’s my turn to save you…”“You don’t owe me anymore… Elara… we’re even…”
Darkness swallowed him.
When he awoke, half a month had passed.
The bullet had missed his heart by centimeters.
The ward door opened.
Elara stepped inside.
She wore a pale blue gown, her expression composed, distant — untouchable.
Giovanni struggled to sit, but she pressed a hand to his chest.
“Don’t move.”
“Elara…” His eyes burned. “You came to see me.”
She stood beside the bed, watching him with quiet clarity.
“That shot canceled out all grudges,” she said softly.“I don’t hate you anymore. Hating you is exhausting. And you’re no longer worth the effort.”
Giovanni’s heart cracked.
He reached out a trembling hand.
“Then we…”
“We are finished,” she said, firm and resolute.“Completely finished.”
She turned toward the door.
Together, they walked away.
Sunlight spilled across the empty hospital bed.
Giovanni watched their retreating figures, a single tear sliding down his cheek.
This was the end.
He would spend the rest of his life in regret — a silent witness to the woman he had destroyed with his own hands.
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