The Don's Broken Vow

Before I could finish, Francesca’s voice cut in from his end.

“Alessandro, come back to bed. The jet leaves in two hours.”

His voice dropped, rushed.

“Valentina, what did you say? I couldn’t hear you.”

“There’s something urgent in Miami. Everything else can wait until I get back.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the screen and laughed.

I was going to give him an easy way out. But he couldn’t even give me that.

In the days that followed, I finished all the power transfers and asset withdrawals.

I moved my things back to the Conti family mansion.

My father’s study was exactly how he’d left it. His cigars still in the humidor. His books still on the shelves.

“Welcome home, Miss,” the butler said. “Your room is ready.”

In the days that followed, Alessandro sent me messages every day.

Photos of a villa on Lake Como.

Photos of a chapel in Tuscany.

Photos of a custom wedding dress worth two million dollars.

All with the same caption:For you.

But at the same time, Francesca was posting on her private Instagram.

She and Alessandro drinking champagne on a yacht in Miami.

Her in a borrowed Hermès gown at a casino.

Her sitting on his lap in his private jet, showing off a new Cartier watch.

Every post was a message to the world: she was the woman Alessandro wanted.

The day before Alessandro’s promised wedding, Carlo came to me in a panic.

“Miss. You need to see this.”

He handed me a phone.

The video showed the rooftop bar of the Fontainebleau. And there was Alessandro, down on one knee in front of Francesca.

He was holding a box. Inside was a yellow diamond the size of a quail egg.

“Francesca. Marry me.”

The Alessandro in the video had tears in his eyes. His voice was soft. Tender.

The crowd around them cheered.

Francesca cried and nodded. Alessandro slipped the ring onto her finger and kissed her.

I recognized that ring. The three‑million‑dollar diamond he had promised me.

“Should I take down the video?” Carlo asked.

“Wipe every copy. Blacklist anyone who shares it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After Carlo left, my phone rang.

Alessandro called, his voice buzzing.

“Valentina! Great news! I’m coming back to Chicago tomorrow. We can finally have our wedding!”

“A chapel in Tuscany. The best planner in Italy. I swear, nothing will go wrong this time.”

The next day, I didn’t go to the chapel. I went back to the compound where we’d lived for four years.

Silence.

Noon came and went. No call from Alessandro.

He didn’t stumble in until 11 p.m. Drunk. Disheveled.

He saw me sitting on the couch. Guilt flashed across his face.

“Valentina…” He swayed into the living room. “I’m sorry. The wedding… it had to be…”

“Had to be what?”

“Francesca… she got into a fight at the hotel. The cops came. I couldn’t just leave her there.” He collapsed into the chair across from me. “But next time. I swear. Next time…”

I felt nothing.

Sure enough. The one hundred and twelfth time.

I just watched him. Then slid the notarized divorce agreement across the table.

“There won’t be a next time. Our alliance and our marriage—both end here.”