The Wife He Waited Ten Years For

I didn't respond.

She leaned in even closer to him, her arm grazing his as if it was completely natural, then glanced sideways at me with a subtle, almost playful look.

"Salvatore," she said lightly, "aren't you going to introduce her? She's…"

Salvatore's expression stiffened instantly.

It was clear he hadn't expected this.

His eyes flickered toward me, a brief flash of unease, almost panic, before he forced himself to stay composed. The lighter went still in his hand.

For a second, I almost laughed.

"Elena Vitale," I said before he could speak, my tone calm and even. "I work at Mr. Bellomo's front office. The restaurant was full, so we're just sharing a table."

His head snapped toward me.

That flicker of panic disappeared just as quickly as it came, replaced by visible relief. He let out a breath, then nodded quickly. The lighter resumed its slow rotation.

"Yeah, that's right," he said. "This is Elena. One of my associates."

Adriana smiled slowly.

The kind of smile a cat gives when it already has its prey pinned beneath its paw.

"Ms. Vitale must be very capable, then," she said, tilting her head slightly. "I've never seen Salvatore sit at the same table with any woman besides me."

Her tone was light, but every word carried weight.

Then she placed her phone casually beside her wine glass, nudging it forward just enough to be seen. It looked accidental.

But it wasn't.

I caught a glimpse of the screen.

Her profile picture.

It matched Salvatore's.

A couple photo.

Even their outfits today were coordinated. Same tones, same palette, down to the smallest details like their watches. Everything was deliberate, curated, expensive. The kind of matched presentation that in this world meant more than romance. It meant claim. It meant territory.

Under the warm lighting of the restaurant, they looked perfect.

Like a portrait of a Don and his donna.

I lowered my gaze, set my chopsticks down carefully, and stood up.

I didn't want to stay.

Before I could take a step, Adriana reached out and grabbed my wrist.

Her fingers were slender, her nails long and perfectly manicured.

They dug into my skin just enough to hurt, just enough to leave a mark, but hidden from Salvatore's line of sight.

"Miss Vitale," she said softly, her voice laced with feigned concern, "you're leaving already? Did I say something wrong?"

Her eyes shimmered, almost as if she were genuinely apologetic.

"Let me apologize, okay?"

I didn't have the patience for this.

Didn't have the energy to play along with someone pretending to be all sweetness and innocence.

I pulled my hand back sharply, breaking free from her grip.

Just as I lowered my eyes to check my wrist, I saw it: thin red marks where her nails had dug in, one of them already starting to bead with blood.

Before I could even process it, everything happened in an instant.

Adriana suddenly lifted her own hand and swung it outward.

A loud smack echoed through the restaurant.

A little boy standing nearby was struck across the face.

His cry broke out immediately, sharp and piercing as he clutched his cheek, tears spilling down as he began sobbing uncontrollably. Two fingers hooked into the hem of his sweater, twisting the fabric tight, and he couldn't look up.

The entire room went quiet for a split second. The Sinatra record between tracks. The clink of silverware stopping at three separate tables. A stillness that in any Family-friendly place meant someone important was watching.

Adriana's expression changed just as quickly.

Her face turned pale, her eyes widening in exaggerated shock.

"Oh no!" she gasped, covering her mouth. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to! Sweetheart, are you okay?"

Salvatore was already on his feet.

He rushed over, apologizing repeatedly to the child's parents, his tone urgent and sincere. Without hesitation, he pulled out his phone and transferred money, trying to smooth things over as quickly as possible. The Don handling civilians. Keeping the peace in a public venue where the Family name floated above every transaction like cigar smoke.

But then the little boy suddenly pointed straight at me.

"It was her!" he cried between sobs. "She grabbed that lady's hand and made her hit me! She should say sorry!"

Every gaze in the restaurant shifted.

All at once.

Adriana turned to me slowly, her eyes filling with hurt, her expression trembling just enough to look real. Her fingers drifted to the pearl at her throat again, holding it like a woman afraid of being struck next.

"Miss Vitale…" she said softly, her voice fragile, "I don't know what I did to upset you."

She lowered her gaze slightly, like she was holding back tears.

"If you have a problem with me, please… just take it out on me. Don't drag innocent people into this…"

Whispers began to spread.

Low voices. Judging. Speculating.

I could feel it.

The weight of every stare pressing against my back. In a place like this, where half the room owed something to the Bellomo name, public opinion wasn't just opinion. It was verdict.

Salvatore turned toward me, his expression darkening instantly.

"What are you standing there for?" he snapped, his voice sharp and cold. "Apologize. Now."

His tone left no room for argument.

"Stop making a scene."

Like I was the problem.

Like I was the one who had embarrassed him.

Like I was the one who didn't belong.