After My Don Found His Ninety-ninth Mistress, I Left

In Chicago, they call me the perfect Mafia wife. A doormat.

On our eighth wedding anniversary, my husband, Damien Luciano, was splashed across the tabloids, partying with nine girls in Las Vegas.

In the third year, the college student he was keeping showed up on our doorstep, demanding my place and threatening to have me thrown out of the Luciano family.

In the fifth year, he spent a fortune on his lover at a charity auction, making me the laughingstock of Chicago's high society.

Everyone laughed at me for being a pushover.

But no one remembered that when Damien married me in that wedding of the century, he had sworn to love only me for the rest of his life.

I clung to that vow. So, at our eighth-anniversary party, I simply steeled myself for the arrival of his ninety-ninth mistress.

At this dinner—a family gathering meant to symbolize my dignity—he showed no restraint, letting his new favorite, Bianca, lord it over me as he casually issued his commands.

"You'll give up the master bedroom tonight. Bianca and I will be sleeping in there."

"Oh, and take off that ruby necklace. Give it to Bianca. She feels it's more fitting for the lady of the house."

In an instant, every eye in the room was on me, their gazes a mix of pity and morbid curiosity, waiting for the fallout.

But I just nodded, turned around, and dialed his mother Isabella's number.

"Eight years are up. It's time for me to leave."

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1

On the other end of the line, Isabella, the family's matriarch, was silent for a long moment before she sighed.

"You've truly been wronged all these years. If you've made up your mind, then go. Leave the rest to me."

Listening to her weary voice, a wave of bitterness washed over me.

The night I accepted Damien's proposal, Isabella had taken me aside for a private talk.

There was no clichéd check to force me to leave, no threats or intimidation. Instead, she had asked me earnestly, "Child, it's fine to play around with him, but are you really sure you want to marry him?"

Back then, I was young and reckless, fueled by a love that made me feel fearless.

Without a second thought, I told her I was sure, that I wanted to be with him for a lifetime.

At that moment, Isabella's eyes held a mixture of wistfulness, helplessness, and pity, but not a trace of relief.

Only much later did I understand the look in her eyes. She was pitying my naivety, helpless in the face of my blind love.

During the first year of our marriage, Damien was still the man I fell in love with, always letting me know his whereabouts before he went out.

At the time, I even laughed at myself for being paranoid, thinking Damien had truly settled down for me.

People say a reformed rake makes the best husband, and I foolishly believed Damien could become that man for me.

But slowly, Damien's "business" trips became more frequent, and the scents of perfume on his shirt grew more and more complex.

Eventually, he stopped coming home altogether, spending day after day carousing in nightclubs.

My fantasy was shattered on our first anniversary, when the news broke of him partying with eight models in Las Vegas.

I rushed into the hotel suite like a madwoman and cornered him, stark naked, on the bed.

That was the first time I had ever cried with such despair. Damien hastily sent all the women away and pulled me into his arms to comfort me.

He knelt before me, saying he had a moment of weakness and swore it would never happen again.

Gazing into his earnest eyes, I let myself believe him.

So, when that college student—as stubborn and headstrong as I once was—showed up on our doorstep, I couldn't even shed a tear.

It was then that Isabella and I made our pact.

She said Damien was still young and that I should give him eight more years.

If, after eight years, he still hadn't changed, she promised to give me a fortune and help me disappear to start over.

This was the eighth year. Damien hadn't changed at all.

After hanging up the phone, I had no intention of going back out.

But Damien found me, with Bianca on his arm.

"Elena, where did we put our wedding rings?"

"Bianca wants to engrave the first letter of her name on my ring tomorrow. What do you think?"

My steps faltered, and a dull ache spread through my chest.

Damien had spent a month designing those rings before he proposed. Back then, he had reverently stroked the letter E on the ring, telling me I was his one and only queen.

Later, I let every woman he brought home take what they wanted without a fight.

Those rings were the one piece of sacred ground I had defended for eight long years.

But this time, I nodded.