Blood Oath Broken The Don's Regret

"Signora Volpe, your husband, Don Nico Volpe, has not responded to any summons regarding this dissolution. We reached his line—the connection held, but there was only silence. Per the protocols of this court, his silence will be recorded as default consent to the breaking of your blood-bound union."

"Therefore, your petition has been processed. You have thirty days from the date of filing to withdraw your claim. Should you choose not to withdraw, the marriage will be dissolved, and the blood oath severed."

The court clerk's voice was flat, devoid of inflection—a man who had witnessed too many broken bonds to feel anything anymore. Perhaps among the countless cases that crossed his desk, this was merely the simplest. A woman walking away from one of the most powerful Families on the Eastern Seaboard. Just another file.

I drew a slow breath. My hands trembled against the phone, but I forced my voice steady.

"Understood."

I ended the call and hailed a car back to the property.

I stood at the entrance of the penthouse, letting my gaze drift across the space that had once belonged to us—the Italian marble floors, the antique furniture imported from Sicily, the grandfather clock that had witnessed three generations of Volpe men. All of it, cold now. Empty.

Then I began packing his things.

I wasn't planning to leave.

I was going to purge every trace of Nico Volpe from these walls.

"Signora Volpe, a delivery for you."

A knock at the door. A courier in a dark suit—one of the Family's men, no doubt.

He extended an envelope, cream-colored, expensive.

"I'm not Signora Volpe anymore."

I took the card and heard the words leave my mouth, foreign and final.

The courier froze, uncertainty flickering across his features before he offered an awkward nod and retreated.

I tore open the envelope.

Inside was a handwritten card.

The script was unmistakably Nico's—elegant, precise, the penmanship of a man raised to sign death warrants and love letters with equal care.

I opened it.

The next second, his voice floated out from the card, recorded and intimate.

"I miss you, I like you, I love you..."

Before I could process the words, a hand snatched the card from my grip.

I stumbled backward, nearly losing my footing on the marble.

I looked up.

Nico stood there, his face dark as a gathering storm—jaw tight, eyes burning with something between fury and possession. He wore his usual black, impeccably tailored, the signet ring of the Volpe heir glinting on his finger.

My phone screen illuminated. A message from him.

Don't touch my things.

Before I could speak a single word, he had already turned and descended the stairs, the card clutched in his fist like a secret he refused to share.

"Nico, you've gone too far!"

Rage erupted through me—hot, blinding, unstoppable. I chased after him, my footsteps echoing through the stairwell like gunshots.

"I didn't go through your things—what gives you the right to disrespect me like this!"

"I don't care what you and your precious Massima have going on, but you have no right to humiliate me!"

A piercing screech shattered the air.

Tires shrieking against asphalt. The violent protest of an emergency brake.

A searing pain exploded through my side.

I didn't see anything—just felt the impact, the brutal force of metal meeting flesh.

My body was thrown.

A heavy, sickening thud as I hit the ground.

I struggled to rise, my vision swimming, the taste of copper flooding my mouth.

A face loomed over me—flawless makeup, designer sunglasses perched on a perfect nose. Massima Gallo. The woman who had clawed her way back from European exile, who had stolen my research, my standing, my husband's attention.

A red stiletto heel came down on my right hand.

Ground down.

Hard.

"Ahh—!"

The scream tore from my throat in ragged, animal bursts. Bone ground against pavement. Tendons screamed. The world narrowed to a single point of white-hot agony.

Through the haze of pain, I saw Nico running toward us—his face transformed, panic cracking through his usual mask of ice.

He looked nothing like the cold, distant man from moments ago.

He grabbed Massima's hand, anxious, his eyes scanning her body with desperate attention, checking every inch of her for harm.

Only after confirming she was untouched did he release a heavy breath of relief.

His shoulders sagged. His grip on her hand gentled.

Until the moment darkness claimed me, he never once looked at me.

When I woke again, I was in the Family medical facility—the private clinic the Volpes maintained for their own. The walls were pristine white, the equipment state-of-the-art, but the air carried the unmistakable chill of a place where loyalty determined the quality of your care.

"Signorina Mancini, your privileges at the Volpe clinic have been revoked. I'm afraid you'll need to be transferred to a standard facility."

The nurse's voice was carefully neutral, but I caught the flicker of pity in her eyes.

"I'm sorry—we've just confirmed there are no private rooms available at the public hospital either. You may have to wait in the corridor for your surgery."

She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice dropped.

"Also, the injury to your right hand is severe. You need surgery immediately, or you may lose the ability to perform fine motor tasks permanently."

Those words hit me like ice water poured directly into my veins.

My right hand.

Unable to perform fine motor tasks.

I had trained for years in the Family's underground medical network. I had dreamed of becoming a surgeon—of saving lives, of proving my worth beyond the alliance marriage that had defined my existence.

"Nico... where's Nico..."

"Get... my phone..."

I tried to sit up, fighting through the waves of nausea and pain.

I had to call him.

The call connected.

A robotic female voice answered.

The number you have dialed is powered off.

A broken sound escaped my throat—something between a sob and a laugh.

I hurled my phone across the room.

It hit the wall with a sharp crack, the screen shattering like my last hope.

My right hand screamed with agony—sharp, relentless, like a thousand needles piercing flesh and bone.

"Signorina Mancini, we located Don Nico. He's with Signorina Gallo in the private counseling suite. Apparently she was shaken by the incident." The nurse hesitated. "The Young Don left strict instructions that no one is to disturb them."

I covered my eyes with my left hand.

Blood and tears mingled together, soaking through the sleeve of my ruined dress.

I clenched my teeth, the words grinding out of me, low and raw as a wound.

"I hate you..."

"I hate you so much, Nico Volpe."