I Loved the Mafia Boss, But He Returned to His First Love

After breakfast, I made my way to the academy for the graduation ceremony, my emotions tangled between pride and a sharp, gnawing ache.

This day marked the culmination of years spent at the Accademia di Belle Arti di Firenze—a path I had devoted my every thought, every brushstroke, and every late-night hour to. Soon, I would leave for Italy, to carve out a life that belonged entirely to me, away from the influence of the Corell family.

But as I stood there, diploma in hand, surrounded by a throng of students and their families, the familiar sting of solitude crept in.

Around me, families celebrated their protégés, snapping photos, laughter spilling over the square. It was a day designed for shared joy—but I moved through it like a ghost, a lone figure among tightly knit factions.

I shook my head and forced a smile. “This is how it always is, Sami,” I murmured to myself, drawing a steadying breath. “No need to mourn that Zaldy isn’t here.”

It was just another day alone, after all.

Fortune intervened in the form of my mentor, the one who had first given me a shot at recognition beyond the orphanage walls. His eyes lit up when he saw me, pride radiating as he congratulated me for earning the scholarship. He insisted on a celebratory lunch afterward, a gesture that felt like sunlight breaking through a storm.

“Italy will change you, Sami,” he said, voice bright and certain. “I want to see the artist you’re destined to become.”

“Thank you, Professor,” I replied, a genuine smile lifting my features.

His words soothed me, a spark of hope in a world that had often felt unkind. But as I left the academy and drove home, a shadow of doubt crept back in.

I watched the courthouse pass by from the car window, a looming reminder of the pending divorce I had yet to finalize. For a fleeting second, I considered ordering the driver to stop, to take action immediately. But the thought of Zaldy’s mother—the formidable matriarch—stopped me. How would she react if I acted rashly?

I exhaled, letting the hesitation pass.

Then my phone buzzed. Her name appeared on the screen.

“Sami, darling!” she chimed, her voice warm and melodic. “Congratulations! You’ve worked so hard. Let’s celebrate—just you and me, a proper day of shopping.”

“That sounds wonderful,” I said, directing the driver back to the manor to pick her up.

When I saw her waiting, anger toward Zaldy softened, replaced by a quiet warmth. Despite everything, his mother had always treated me with kindness. Being with her reminded me that I still had a place in a family somewhere in this fractured world.

We spent hours wandering the shops, chatting like companions from a simpler time, and she ensured I didn’t leave empty-handed.

While she examined a designer bag, I scrolled through my phone—and froze.

A post from Maria appeared: New York Fashion Week. Zaldy stood beside her, arm linked with hers, both smiling as if nothing in the world existed beyond the frame.

The caption read: [So glad to be here again this year, especially with someone you love.]

My chest tightened. So that was why he had skipped my graduation.

My fingers clenched the phone as Zaldy’s mother noticed my tension.

“Sami, dear, are you alright?” she asked, concern etched in her features.

I forced a calm smile. “Yes, I’m fine. Did you find something you liked?”

“I did. And I picked one for you, too. I hope you’ll enjoy it,” she said, handing me a bag.

“Thank you, truly,” I replied, letting the warmth of her gesture cut through my bitterness.

Back at the manor, the emptiness pressed heavier than ever. Zaldy did not return that night, nor the next. I tried to distract myself, but a persistent unease left me restless.

Days later, another post: Maria in Paris for Fashion Week. And there he was, by her side again—his posture protective, his gaze devoted, his smile reserved entirely for her.

Each image twisted something inside me. Photos of him attending her events, celebrating milestones in her circle, laughing and leaning close—the sting of jealousy flared hotter with each snapshot.

“Why don’t they just move in together already?” I muttered, anger and frustration coiling in my stomach.

I could no longer hold back. My pulse racing, I threw the phone aside, gathered my papers, and ordered the driver to take me to the courthouse.

This time, hesitation had no place. I signed the divorce papers with precision, my signature firm and unwavering. No more doubt. No more waiting. I reclaimed my life.

---

A few days later, Zaldy returned from Paris.

That evening, I set a quiet dinner, the first time in weeks we would sit across from each other. Calm and deliberate, the divorce documents were laid neatly beside my plate.

As he took his seat, I slid the folder across the table.

Zaldy glanced at it, expression unreadable, then pushed it back toward me.

“Put it in my office. I’ll review it later,” he said casually.

I froze. “You’re not even going to read them?” My voice trembled with disbelief.

He sighed, picking up his communicator. “Sami, can we not do this now? I just got back. I’m exhausted.”

“Do you even care?” I pressed, voice shaking. “Have you noticed? I stopped managing your schedules, stopped tending to your needs—and you barely reacted.”

“Look,” he said, waving a hand dismissively, “throwing a fit doesn’t make me drop everything. Now, if you’re done, let me eat in peace.”

I stared at him, every ounce of indifference in his eyes answering all the questions I hadn’t dared to ask aloud.

Finally, I rose, clutching the papers to my chest, feeling a surge of strength bloom.

“Very well, Zaldy,” I whispered, not meeting his gaze. “I’ll leave them in your office. But this time, I am done waiting for you.”

I walked away, placing the divorce papers on his desk. My eyes fell on a chaotic pile of receipts, statements, and purchase orders.

My heart sank. Since Maria’s return, his expenses had soared—a penthouse in Paris, lavish gifts—evidently all for her.

On impulse, I grabbed a sticky note and scrawled: “Make sure you sign it!”