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

I began packing at dawn, sorting through years of memories and belongings with a clarity I had never felt before.

Though Zaldy and I technically had separate quarters in the manor, we shared a dressing wing—a space I had once meticulously maintained, folding his suits, polishing his shoes, arranging his belts, and ensuring everything he owned was in perfect order. It had been my daily ritual, a small attempt to keep peace in a marriage that had always been more obligation than love. But now, it was time to let it all go.

As I folded my own clothes, my gaze landed on the gifts I had given him over the years: luxury watches, tailored jackets, trinkets from foreign cities, and carefully chosen items for birthdays, anniversaries, and every other occasion the family recognized. Each lay untouched, still wrapped or set aside as if my effort had never mattered.

My chest tightened. I had poured care, thought, and hope into every single one, hoping they might remind him that I had once tried to be more than a name in the ledger. But they were never for me to keep. I bundled them for donation, a quiet act of reclaiming control over my life.

Next, I packed every token he had ever given me—gold chains, rings, garments meant to remind me of my “place,” symbols of ownership rather than affection. I left behind only what I had earned with my own labor: the steady income from selling my paintings, modest yet entirely my own.

When the donation boxes were loaded into the car, I set off for the orphanage where I had grown up. On the way, I stopped at a small market and bought treats for the children there—no matter how far I traveled, they would always be a piece of my heart.

Upon arrival, the woman who had raised me, my mother in all but blood, greeted me warmly. We settled into a quiet corner, speaking in the familiar rhythm of mother and daughter.

After a pause, I exhaled and shared my plans.

“I’m leaving for Italy to continue my studies,” I said, a small, resolute smile brushing my lips. Her eyes lit up, and she clasped my hands tightly.

“Oh, Sami! I knew you were meant for great things,” she said, voice trembling with pride. “You deserve every bit of happiness coming your way.”

Her words soothed the knot in my chest, giving me courage. “I’m also… divorcing Zaldy.”

Her expression faltered, concern shading her features. She had known me long enough to recognize the kindness in my heart, and perhaps she had hoped my marriage might provide a family I had never truly had.

As I explained, her face softened. “Sometimes letting go is the bravest act,” she murmured, patting my hands. “You must walk your own path, Sami.”

I nodded and embraced her tightly. “Thank you.”

Evening came, and I drove home slowly, savoring the quiet. No rush, no need to arrive precisely when Zaldy demanded, no fear of disapproval. In the past, I would have pushed the car to every limit to reach the manor on time; even meals had been rituals, strict rules he enforced to remind me of my “duties.”

I never understood why he clung to these routines when there was no love, no partnership. Perhaps it was for show, proof to the family and household that we were a “proper couple,” though we lived apart, slept apart, existed entirely separate.

But when I entered the manor, my chest tightened.

Gritte, Zaldy’s younger sister, lounged on the couch beside Maria, shopping bags from designer boutiques scattered around them.

“Oh, you’re back,” Gritte sneered, dripping entitlement. “Why so late? We’re hungry. The chef hasn’t prepared anything. Go fix it.”

Her words stung, a reminder of all the thankless labor I had poured into this house. Maria didn’t look at me, fussing over a new handbag as though I were invisible.

Zaldy emerged from the shadows of the hallway, his presence effortless and commanding. “No need to cook Samight. We’ll dine out,” he said smoothly, his voice softening the instant it fell on Maria. “What would you like, Lily?”

Her face lit up. “Steak! The place from college—our favorite.”

Without hesitation, he grabbed the car keys. Watching them together, so naturally at ease, I moved toward the door, hoping to escape witnessing their private reunion.

His voice cut through the room, sharp and controlled. “You’re coming with us. You must be hungry too.”

I paused, keeping my tone steady. “No, thank you. I’m not.”

“That wasn’t a question,” he said, darker now, irritation edging every word.

I exhaled, the weight of his authority pressing down, and relented. “Fine,” I murmured.

In the car, Zaldy and Maria shared the front seat, laughing and reminiscing as if the world existed only for them. I was relegated to the back with Gritte, who kept as much distance as possible, treating me like a stranger.

The city lights blurred past the window while they talked and laughed. Their comfort and connection stabbed at my chest, a sharp reminder of the life I had never truly shared with him.

When we arrived at the restaurant, my stomach twisted. The steakhouse—one I had once thought was ours—had always belonged to him and Maria. Each familiar detail, every shadowed corner, now reflected the truth: everything I had believed about us was an illusion.