He Left Us to Die While Chasing Another Woman

I fixed my eyes on Vittorio, a crushing sense of disillusionment spreading through my chest. There had been a time when I thought every angle of his face was carved by heaven itself, as if even the moon had paused to admire him. Back then, I would have sworn he was flawless. Now the mere sight of him made my stomach twist. Whatever affection I once carried had long since rotted into disgust.

Vittorio parted his lips as if he were about to speak, but Valeria slipped in ahead of him, her voice laced with practiced weakness.

“Don… my head feels dizzy again,” she whispered. “And my cheek is aching. Could you see if it’s swollen?”

His attention snapped to her instantly, concern lighting his eyes without the slightest delay. Seizing that opening, Valeria leaned heavily into him, letting out a faint breath like she could barely remain upright. The red mark from my hand stood out vividly against her pale skin, a perfect prop for her act.

Tears welled quickly in her eyes. Vittorio reached up and brushed them away with gentle fingers, the familiarity of his touch driving a dull ache straight through my chest. There had been a time when he did the same for me—when he would steady me if I faltered, when his voice softened only in my presence. Those memories felt like fragments from another life.

Then his face hardened. The warmth drained away, leaving only cold authority.

“Bianca,” he said curtly, “you will apologize to your sister.”

I squared my shoulders and raised my chin, refusing to look away.

“No,” I answered.

The word startled him. Once, I would have tiptoed around his temper, desperate for approval that never came. No matter how devoted I was, it was never enough. Valeria always stood higher in his eyes.

Looking back, I realized she had never tried to hide her hostility. Even as children, she resented me for being trusted more, for being capable. That bitterness only grew when the heirloom—the family heirloom she coveted—was passed down to me instead of her.

When she sensed my feelings for Don Vittorio, she began pursuing him too, turning it into a contest she refused to lose. Still, I never imagined she would return after her own partner’s death and shatter my world all over again.

Vittorio’s surprise faded quickly. He leaned back against the sofa, Valeria still cradled in his arms, and spoke in a voice edged with threat.

“Don’t test me, Bianca.”

Seconds later, the syndicate enforcers he had summoned through his private line arrived and blocked my escape. They seized my arms and shoved me back in front of the couple, their grips merciless.

Vittorio lounged as though nothing was amiss, his eyes skimming over me with detached indifference.

“Apologize,” he said again.

Valeria turned to him, a faint curve of triumph on her lips, half-hidden behind false humility.

“It’s fine, Don. She didn’t mean to hurt me.”

He gazed at her with sympathy. “You’re too generous. You’ve always treated her kindly, yet she’s never acted like your sister.”

Then he looked back at me, his stare cutting.

“Anyone who lays a hand on Valeria will pay the price.”

At his subtle signal, the guards forced me down. My knees hit the floor hard. As my head dipped, I caught the slightest hint of satisfaction on his lips. One of the men stepped closer, hand raised, ready to strike.

Valeria’s voice stopped him.

“Don,” she said softly, “she’s still my sister. I’m afraid they might hurt her too badly. If discipline is needed… let me handle it.”

Vittorio gave a brief nod.

Valeria stepped forward and slapped me—once, then again. Her nails raked my skin, leaving stinging lines across my cheek as pain burst through my face.

She turned back to him, feigning uncertainty.

“Don… I’ve hit her. What should we do now?”

His reply was ice-cold. “She deserved it. And you’re still worrying about her after everything.”

The guards released me. My legs buckled and I fell to the floor. Vittorio remained seated, staring down at me without an ounce of regret.

“You still owe Valeria an apology,” he said.

An apology.

She was the one who mocked my son, who accused him of lying. Luca would never lie. Yet this worthless Don always chose her side, no matter how vile the injustice.

I lifted my head and glared at him, my voice thick with fury.

“Keep dreaming.”

Then I screamed, every shred of pain and hatred pouring out. “I despise you, Don Vittorio!”