The Wife He Waited Ten Years For

I bent down to pick one up.

Before I could even straighten, he reached out and took it from my hands.

"Fine, I'll throw them out for you," he said, almost impatiently. "But stop wasting money on useless stuff. What, do you think money grows on trees?"

His tone was casual.

Indifferent.

Like none of this mattered.

Then, as if nothing had happened at all, he added, "Go change. I'll take you out to eat."

Like this was just another normal day.

Like nothing was ending.

Instead, I walked out to the balcony.

From there, I watched him.

He carried the boxes downstairs and walked straight to the dumpster behind the building, past the black sedan idling at the curb where one of his soldiers sat waiting with the engine running.

No hesitation.

No second glance.

He tossed them in.

Just like that.

The same way he had thrown away our five years.

Effortlessly.

Like they meant nothing at all.

At the restaurant, a quiet place on neutral ground where the Family sometimes held private tables, he ordered several dishes without asking.

Most of them were our usual favorites.

The kind we always shared.

The kind tied to memories. Late-night laughter, old movies on the couch, lazy Sundays where time seemed to slow down and the world outside, with all its blood and obligation, couldn't reach us.

For a moment, it almost felt familiar.

Almost.

But then I saw it.

One more dish.

Bitter melon with scrambled eggs.

The one I hated the most.

He knew that.

He had always remembered.

Every little thing.

Until now.

My appetite disappeared completely, like something inside me had quietly snapped. The smell of the food, the low conversation at nearby tables, even the old Sinatra record playing through the restaurant's speakers all felt distant. I didn't feel like forcing myself anymore, didn't feel like pretending everything was normal.

"Excuse me," I called gently to the waiter standing nearby, keeping my tone polite and controlled. "Could you take this dish off the table? I'll pay for it separately."

The waiter hesitated for a second, clearly unsure, but before he could even reach for the plate, Salvatore moved first. He dragged the dish back toward himself with a faint scoff.

"Oh, come on," he said, his voice edged with annoyance. "I miss a few days while you're in the clinic and suddenly you're acting like a drama queen?" He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Maybe if you were actually paying attention to where you were going, you wouldn't have gotten hit by a car in the first place."

The words landed harder than they should have.

Because I knew what it looked like when he cared.

I had seen it before.

There had been a time when I caught a fever in the middle of winter. He had panicked, lifted me onto his back, and carried me all the way to a safe doctor through freezing wind, his hands trembling, his voice breaking as he kept asking if I was still conscious. I still remembered the way he cried that night, like losing me would destroy him. Back then he wasn't the Don yet. Back then his hands still shook for reasons that had nothing to do with violence.

And now?

Now he had been part of the accident that hurt me… and didn't even bother to show up.

He knew I hated bitter melon. For five years, he had never once ordered it, never once brought anything remotely bitter to our table. He used to say even the smell made me frown too much.

And yet now, like we had gone back in time to when we had just met, like none of those years had ever existed, he casually ordered it again without a second thought.

I curled my lips into a faint, tired smile, the kind that didn't quite reach my eyes.

"I really hate bitter melon," I said softly. "I can't even stand the smell."

"Then don't eat it," he replied immediately, his tone sharp and impatient. "Simple."

The irritation in his voice wasn't even hidden. The silver lighter appeared in his hand, turning slow across his knuckles, each rotation catching the candlelight like a small, indifferent blade.

But I kept my expression calm, polite, like I had trained myself to be over the years.

"I think… we should—"

I didn't get to finish.

A woman's voice cut in smoothly from the side.

"Salvatore, after all these years, you still remember I love bitter melon!"

I lifted my gaze.

She stood right beside our table, perfectly put together from head to toe. Flawless makeup. Impeccable styling. Her posture straight, chin slightly lifted as she looked down at me with a faint, unmistakable trace of disdain. One finger rested on the pearl at her throat, light as a breath, as if confirming something only she needed to know.

Without waiting for any invitation, she stepped closer.

With an easy familiarity, she nudged Salvatore slightly inward on the booth, then slipped into the seat right next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The two soldiers sitting at the bar didn't turn, but I could feel the room's attention tighten, the way it always did when the Don's table changed shape.

"Let me introduce myself," she said sweetly, her voice smooth like syrup. "I'm Salvatore's girlfriend. Adriana Caruso."