A Proper Donna Takes Out the Trash

While Adrian was away negotiating an arms deal with the Russians, Veronica tampered with my haute couture gown—she knew I had prepared it for the family's charity gala, where I had to be flawless.

On the red carpet, in front of a sea of cameras and the city's elite, the seams of my gown tore apart in a moment of utter humiliation.

But Veronica didn't care. She pulled me into a lounge and sneered, "You're the Falcone Principessa, aren't you? So pampered. Why don't you just be a good little trophy wife and stay in your lane? Leave the real work—the blood and bullets—to me and Adrian."

I lost my temper and slapped her hard across the face.

The next second, Adrian appeared, pulling Veronica into his arms and shielding her.

He glared at me, his voice laced with reproach. "You're the Donna. Is this how you act? She's defenseless, and you attack her? Veronica didn't mean any harm. Why must you make everything so difficult?"

Veronica pressed herself against him, her eyes wide and shimmering with tears. "Donna, I know I'm clumsy. You aren't really going to send me away over something so small, are you?"

That night, he didn't return to our penthouse on Central Park West.

I sat on the cold silk sheets until dawn, a hollow ache where my heart used to be.

As I was packing away his shirts, I saw the tattoo on his back shoulder. The family falcon, once a symbol of our wedding vows, now had its wings subtly twisted into the letter "V." The betrayal was etched into his very skin.

Numb with heartbreak, I picked up the encrypted phone and called my father, the Don of the Falcone family.

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1

Adrian didn't stumble in until early morning, reeking of cheap alcohol.

The moment he walked in, I caught the scent of a perfume on him that wasn't mine.

My heart sank.

He didn't even notice the look on my face, just opened his arms to hug me from behind.

The cloying, sweet perfume washed over me, and a wave of nausea rose in my throat.

I shoved him away, staring at him coldly.

"Where were you last night?"

Adrian froze. He glanced away, the drunkenness in his eyes vanishing in an instant.

But he recovered quickly, striding toward me with a casual smile. "Oh, baby. I was out talking business with the Irish mob, you know, a few drinks."

"I've been putting in the hours to lock down the New York Harbor. I'm the Don of this family, after all—the responsibility falls to me."

His tone dripped with self-righteousness, a pathetic veil for his betrayal.

Since he was intent on lying to my face, there was no point in pressing him further.

There was another crucial negotiation with the Colombians that afternoon, but I was physically and mentally drained from the aftermath of the red carpet incident.

In the meeting room, I fought through my exhaustion, parleying with the Colombian drug lords, while across the table, Veronica draped herself all over Adrian—one moment adjusting his tie, the next whispering in his ear.

In front of everyone—even those ruthless cartel bosses who killed without a flicker of emotion—their display was brazenly inappropriate.

Each time, Adrian would pretend to scold her, patting her hand away with an indulgent smile. "Stop it, we're in a meeting. Behave."

Veronica pouted. "This meeting is dragging on forever. I'm so bored."

"Be good. After the meeting, I'll take you on a shopping spree at Hermès on Fifth Avenue."

This negotiation was critical for the family—securing the exclusive supply for the next five years would determine our future.

So I feigned ignorance of their nauseating display and continued my presentation.

As I turned to grab a file, a single, hot tear fell onto the back of my hand.

After our wedding, Adrian had been utterly devoted to me in every way—with one exception: business.

His management style was cold and ruthless. He tolerated no mistakes. Even I, his wife, was forbidden from disturbing him during official meetings.

Yet, he let another woman cling to him and whine, and he didn't just tolerate it—he seemed to revel in it.

I composed myself and pushed on with the presentation.

In the end, my proposal convinced even the most stubborn drug lord to agree to the partnership.

But when I asked Veronica to bring over the encrypted laptop—the one holding our only decryption key—a sharp gasp echoed through the room.

I froze. Veronica had "accidentally" spilled a glass of water on the laptop. The screen flickered twice, then went dead.

That laptop contained all our shipping routes and safe house locations for the next five years.

Adrian's face darkened. He shot to his feet and ordered Veronica to apologize.

"Veronica. Apologize."

Veronica stomped her foot, throwing a tantrum. "Why should I? I didn't know that laptop was so important! It was just sitting there—I thought it was nothing!"

"You told me I could touch anything in your office! And why aren't you blaming Naomi? If it was so damn important, why wasn't she guarding it? You're all just ganging up on me!"

Adrian grabbed her wrist, trying to calm her down.