The Woman Who Left the Mafia Boss Behind

Selina’s POV

Earlier that day, my world had already fallen apart.

I lost my baby during a violent ambush carried out by a rival crime family. Blood stained my clothes, my body crumpled under pain and shock—and while it was happening, my husband was nowhere near me. Don Lorenzo Vitale, head of the Blue Moon Syndicate, was out walking calmly through the city with his trusted underboss, Francesca.

Lorenzo was the undisputed Don of our organization. Every order passed through him, every alliance bent to his will. Francesca, newly promoted after her father stepped down three months ago, stood at his side as his second-in-command.

When they finally arrived at the scene, Lorenzo saw me.

He saw the crimson soaking through my dress.

He saw me barely standing.

Instead of rushing to me, he stepped in front of Francesca, blocking her line of sight. His voice was detached, almost disgusted, as he said quietly, “Stay back. Don’t involve yourself. Bad luck follows scenes like this.”

Then they turned away.

Without another word, they left—cars disappearing down the street while I was still surrounded by danger.

That was when the rival gunmen moved in again.

I don’t remember much after that. Only the sound of shouting, the sharp pain, and then nothing as darkness swallowed me whole.

---

When I was discharged from the family’s private medical wing later that night, my body ached with injuries they barely explained. A concussion. A fractured arm. And the one loss they delivered with cold professionalism—

I had lost my child.

I didn’t even know I had been pregnant. I had always dreamed of becoming a mother, of building a real family beyond the blood-soaked walls of the syndicate. That dream ended before it even had a chance to live.

When I returned to the mansion, exhausted and hollow, I went straight to the bedroom.

That was when I saw it.

A black lace thong lay carelessly on our bed.

So this was where they’d crossed the line now.

Our bed.

Something inside me finally snapped.

I couldn’t stay anymore. I couldn’t keep swallowing this pain and calling it loyalty. My hands trembled as I reached for my phone on the bedside table and dialed a number I hadn’t called in years.

“Good evening, Don Alessandro,” I said once the line connected. “I’ve made my decision. I want to return to your family. Please prepare the transfer.”

There was a brief pause before his voice came through, surprised but pleased.

“That’s excellent news,” he replied. “I’ll handle everything personally.”

The call ended just as Lorenzo walked into the room, eyes glued to his phone, thumbs moving rapidly across the screen.

He barely acknowledged my presence.

Lately, he was always like this—distracted, distant, permanently tethered to his phone. He’d been coming home later and later ever since Francesca officially became his underboss.

“Were you speaking to Alec?” he asked casually, glancing up for only a second.

“No, it was—” I began.

My words were cut short by his phone ringing.

“Never mind,” he said flatly. “This is more important.”

He turned away as he answered, lowering his voice. “Let’s message instead. I’m not alone right now.”

When the call ended, his phone chimed with an incoming text. He smiled at the screen.

That smile hurt more than the silence.

I wondered who could make him look like that.

And I already knew the answer.

“Where did you put my clothes?” he asked suddenly, scanning the room. “You usually leave them on the bed.”

Before I could respond, he added, almost as an afterthought, “We looked into the ambush. It won’t happen again. And your injuries—Dr. Brad said you’ll recover soon.”

“They’re fine,” I replied shortly, scrolling through my phone, refusing to look at him.

He studied me for a moment, waiting for something—gratitude, perhaps.

“Who are you texting?” he asked.

I almost laughed.

“No one,” I said, not lifting my eyes.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but his phone rang once more.

“Francesca,” he said warmly, his voice softening in a way I hadn’t heard in years. “You’re never a bother. I like hearing from you. You brighten my day.”

Then he walked out of the room.

She was his light.

And I was just background noise.

My phone buzzed in my hand, pulling me from my thoughts. It was a message from Zed, one of our lieutenants.

[You should see the Don’s new post.]

He sent a link. Against my better judgment, I opened it.

It was a video of Lorenzo, looking relaxed and sincere.

“I owe you an apology, Francesca,” he said to the camera. “I shouldn’t have told you to text instead of calling. From now on, I’ll do things your way. That’s what a good Don should do.”

Five years ago, when I’d asked for his social media, he told me he didn’t use any of it.

Another lie.

He just hadn’t wanted me to see.

A moment later, an email notification appeared on my screen—the official transfer documents from Don Alessandro. I downloaded them quietly and resolved to print them the next day.

---

The following morning, I had just finished my breakfast when the doorbell rang.

Before I could stand, Lorenzo rushed past me and answered it himself.

A few minutes later, he returned to the dining room carrying two flower arrangements—one of roses, the other of peonies.

I stared, stunned. “You bought flowers?”

“These are for you,” he said softly, holding out the peonies.

I didn’t reach for them.

“I’m allergic to those,” I said under my breath. “I’ve told you that more times than I can count.”

He looked genuinely taken aback. “You’ve never mentioned that. Not once in all these years.”

“I have,” I replied coldly. “Give me the roses instead.”

As I reached for them, he pulled back.

His expression hardened. “If you don’t want those, throw them away. They’re not meant for you.”

My chest tightened. “Then who are they for?”

He didn’t answer. He simply set the peonies down on the table and turned away.

That was when I picked up the black thong from the nearby chair and held it up calmly.

“Tell me,” I said evenly. “Who does this belong to?”

He froze.

“I—” he started.

“Is it Francesca’s?” I interrupted.

Panic flashed across his face. “I don’t know how it ended up here. Just give it to me. I’ll return it to her.”

He snatched it from my hand and headed for the door. “Get dressed. I’ll take you out for breakfast.”

I stared after him in disbelief.

He never took me out.

But he took her everywhere.

There was an empty plate still in front of me, proof that I had already eaten—but once again, it was clear.

He hadn’t been paying attention to me at all.