He Cheated, So I Proposed to the Don

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Marco stared at me, his face a mask of fury, but he kept his distance from Lorenzo.

"Perfectly." I linked my arm through Lorenzo’s. "I'm choosing a real man."

Lorenzo's hand covered mine, his thumb stroking my knuckles as he addressed Marco. His voice was low, a quiet threat more terrifying than any shout. "Falcone, I suggest you accept this new reality. Lydia is under my protection now."

Marco’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent. In New York, no one was foolish enough to challenge the Moretti Don to his face.

"Let's go," Lorenzo said to me. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a command wrapped in care.

The adrenaline began to fade as we walked through the quiet parking garage, and the sheer audacity of what I'd just done hit me.

I had no regrets.

Just then, a news alert lit up my phone: Massive shootout in the South District. Suspected weapons deal gone wrong.

The report detailed how Lorenzo Moretti was a no-show for a billion-dollar negotiation with a major South American arms cartel. The deal collapsed, and all hell broke loose on the docks.

I looked up at him, stunned. "You skipped a deal that size... to come to my engagement party?"

Lorenzo started the engine, the powerful car purring to life. He gave me a ghost of a smile. "No deal is more important than you, Lydia."

His words sent a jolt through my heart, but it was quickly followed by a pang of guilt. "Actually, I'm sorry. Back there, I was just using you to—"

"It doesn't matter," Lorenzo cut in, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "I'm glad you found me useful. Besides, even if you hadn't come to me tonight, I would have taken you anyway."

"Now," he said, shifting gears, "let's make it official."

The car pulled up to City Hall. It was ten at night, but the building was lit, and staff were clearly waiting for us.

"This is—" Before I could finish, Lorenzo was leading me out of the car.

"Don Moretti, everything is ready," a city official greeted us with a deferential bow.

The entire marriage registration took less than fifteen minutes. The moment the clerk pronounced us husband and wife, Lorenzo turned me, his hands cupping my face, and pulled me into a fiery, claiming kiss.

"Now, no one can ever take you from me," he whispered against my lips, his voice thick with a possessiveness that was both thrilling and terrifying.

"I will prepare our wedding. A real wedding. Wait for me, my bride."

My head was still spinning as I took a cab back to my downtown penthouse apartment.

The second I opened the door, a wave of nausea washed over me.

The TV blared in the living room. Half-eaten pizza boxes littered the designer coffee table. And there was Sofia, lounging on my couch in my silk robe, casually painting her nails.

"Oh, look who's back," she drawled without looking up. "I thought you'd be spending the night elsewhere."

My gaze drifted to the wall where my half-a-million-dollar Monet original once hung. It was now defaced with colorful, childish scrawls. Leo sat on the floor, paintbrush in hand, admiring his "masterpiece."

"What are you doing in my home?" I fought to keep my voice from shaking.

"Marco said it's safer for us here," Sofia finally looked up, her eyes flashing with challenge. "And as the mother of his son, I have every right to be here."

Rage simmered in my chest. But what happened next sent a sliver of ice through my veins. Leo toddled over to the entryway console and picked up the only framed photograph I had of my late mother.

"Put. That. Down," I said, my voice trembling with suppressed fury.

The five-year-old just smirked, a chillingly adult expression on his young face. He held the frame high, then deliberately smashed it onto the marble floor. As if that wasn't enough, he began stomping on the shattered glass with his little shoes.

"Who's this old hag? From now on, only pictures of my mommy are allowed in this house!"