His First Love Came Back, So I Left

That night was my first time. I didn't even know if I should cry or laugh. He held me the whole night, his grip tight like he was afraid someone would take me away too. But every word that came out of his mouth… was her name. Over and over again. Not mine. Never mine.

I stared at the ceiling until my eyes burned, wondering… was this what being a wife meant? Or was I just something he used to survive her absence?

The next morning, he woke up first. There were bloodstains on the sheets. He noticed. I saw it in the way his eyes paused for a second. Just a second.

Then he looked away.

Didn't say anything. Not even one word. Not even… sorry.

I smiled like nothing happened. I got his clothes ready, laid them out neatly like I always did.

"You've got an important sit-down today," I told him softly. "Don't be late."

Like I wasn't the one who bled all night. Like my heart wasn't already torn open.

...

From that day on, I tried harder. Pathetic, right? I knew he didn't love me. I knew I was just filling space. But I still tried.

He had a bad stomach, so I woke up early every morning and made him broth. The kind that wouldn't hurt him — slow-simmered chicken, the way his mother's cook used to make it before Domenico dismissed the old staff. He was always under pressure, dealing with things I didn't even want to imagine — territories shifting, tributes running short, the constant weight of holding five capos in line — so I learned how to massage his shoulders and his back, careful and quiet.

I liked silence anyway. Or maybe I just got used to it. I stopped making noise, stopped asking for anything. Even my footsteps became softer on the marble floors of the Valente compound. If I stayed small enough… maybe I wouldn't bother him.

And somehow, he started changing. A little.

When he came back from trips — Palermo, Zurich, wherever the Family's business carried him — he'd sometimes bring me small things. Nothing big. Just… something.

When I got sick, he'd make me medicine himself and hand it to me without looking at me.

"Drink it," he'd say. "Don't be stubborn."

And at night, sometimes he held me. His arm around my waist, his body warm against mine. Those moments felt so real it scared me. Like maybe… maybe he was starting to see me. Maybe I wasn't just nothing to him anymore.

He never mentioned the divorce again. Not once. Like that paper we signed never existed.

And I… I actually believed it. I thought maybe if I just held on a little longer, he'd fall in love with me.

Stupid, right?

Three months ago, Ambra came back. She broke up with her boyfriend and returned from Europe like nothing happened.

And Domenico? He went back to her without hesitation. No explanation. No guilt. Nothing.

He took her out to eat at the Family's restaurants, went shopping with her on Fifth Avenue, stayed by her side like she was the only thing that mattered in the world. He even canceled sit-downs, important ones, the kind he used to say could never be moved — men left waiting in backrooms, capos exchanging looks that said more than words. All because she said she was in a bad mood.

I stood by the window one night and watched his black sedan pull away from the compound gates, the taillights disappearing past the soldiers on perimeter detail. Same direction. Same place. Her place.

I didn't cry this time. I just watched.

And finally understood.

Love was love. Real love didn't change. No matter how much I gave, how much I tried, how much I broke myself into something smaller and quieter and easier to keep… it would never compare to one look from her. Not even close.

Five years. It was almost over.

"Why aren't you saying anything?"

His voice snapped me out of it. I blinked and looked at him, my throat tightening like something was stuck there.

He didn't remember?

For five years, I'd been counting down every single day, scared that when the time came, he'd just walk away without even looking back. But now he stood there like none of it existed. Like that agreement meant nothing.

Did it ever mean anything to him?

I parted my lips, about to remind him, to say it out loud before I lost the courage again — but his phone rang.

He picked it up right away.

I couldn't hear clearly, but I knew that voice. Ambra. She was crying, choking on her words, panicking about something.

Domenico's expression changed instantly. His whole body tensed, like nothing else in the world mattered anymore. His hand stilled on his father's silver ring, and then he was already moving.

"Hey, hey… don't panic," his voice dropped, low and urgent. "I'm coming right now. Stay there. Don't move, you hear me?"

He didn't even wait for a reply. The call ended and he grabbed his keys, already moving.

"Domenico, I—"

I didn't even finish.

He rushed past me and his shoulder slammed into mine so hard I lost my balance. My back hit the door frame and a sharp pain shot through me. I let out a small sound, something between a gasp and a groan.

But he didn't stop.

Didn't look back.

Didn't even notice.

The door closed and he was gone.

Just like that.

I stayed there for a few seconds, leaning against the wall, trying to breathe through the pain. The compound was quiet around me. Somewhere beyond the walls, an engine turned over and tires bit gravel. Then nothing.

I slowly pushed myself up and walked back to the bedroom.

I took off my coat and saw the bruise already forming on my shoulder. Dark. Ugly.

I opened the first aid kit and cleaned it quietly, pressing the cotton against my skin. It stung, but it was nothing compared to what was inside my chest.

That felt like something dull was slicing through it… slowly, over and over again.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window. The sky was getting darker, the city lights coming on one by one beyond the estate walls, past the iron gates where the soldiers stood their posts.

I don't even know how long I stayed like that. Until my phone rang.

Domenico.

I hesitated for a second then picked up.

"Come to the Favilla clinic," he said, straight to the point.

My heart skipped. "What happened?"

"We'll talk when you get here."

The line went dead.

...

When I arrived, I saw him right away. He was standing outside the operating room, two of his soldiers posted at either end of the corridor, keeping the hallway clear. And Ambra… she was pressed against him, crying like her whole world was falling apart.

My steps slowed.

Something tightened in my chest again, like a hand squeezing too hard.

I still walked over.

"What happened?" I asked softly.

Domenico looked at me, his expression serious. "Ambra's mother collapsed earlier. It's a severe blood disorder. Her body's failing fast. She needs a bone marrow transplant immediately."

I froze. "And…?"

"We checked everywhere," he continued, calm like he was discussing a piece of business at a sit-down. "No match. So I had them run a test on you. Quietly."

Something inside me dropped. My fingers drifted to my left wrist, pressing against bare skin where nothing sat anymore.

"And?" My voice barely came out.

"You're a match."