Eight Years of Devotion, Yet the Mafia Boss Betrayed Me

Sofia's POV

I was supposed to be walking toward a wedding altar—and the man I’d given eight years of my life to didn’t even know it was about to happen.

Lorenzo barely came home anymore. When he did, it was late, distracted, and already halfway gone. His focus had shifted to Francesca, his newly appointed consigliere assistant—a sharp-eyed woman with ambition written into the way she spoke. He’d hired her himself not long ago, and from the very beginning, something about them fit too easily. Too naturally.

In the glass-lined corridors of the penthouse office that doubled as one of his many mafia fronts, their voices carried freely. Low laughter, private jokes, shared glances reflected in polished marble and steel. They spoke as if the space belonged only to them, as if I were just another piece of furniture blending into the background.

When Francesca’s birthday arrived, Lorenzo turned it into an event. He commissioned a massive, multi-layered cake infused with moonflower extract—an expensive, rare ingredient imported through his underground channels. He knew I was severely allergic to moonflower. I’d nearly ended up in the hospital years ago because of it. He knew. He just didn’t care enough to remember.

During the celebration, they stood close, feeding each other bites of frosting, smearing cream on fingertips and cheeks, laughing like nothing else in the world existed. Music thumped. Glasses clinked. Men with guns at their waists pretended not to notice. I stood a few steps away, invisible, watching the man who once promised me forever forget I was even in the room.

The scent reached me quickly. My chest seized as if a fist had closed around my lungs. Each breath became harder than the last. Panic surged, hot and uncontrollable, my vision blurring at the edges. I tried to steady myself against the table, but the floor tilted beneath my feet.

The last thing I remembered was falling—music still playing, laughter still ringing—while no one noticed.

When I woke up, I was in one of Lorenzo’s private medical suites. An IV was taped to my arm. The room smelled sterile and cold. My chest ached, but this time the pain had nothing to do with the allergic reaction.

Staring up at the ceiling, I finally made a decision I’d been avoiding for years. The marriage proposal my family had arranged long ago—the one I kept postponing, defending Lorenzo with excuses—I finally accepted it.

Yes.

My mother didn’t hesitate. She never did. The moment I returned to the apartment and shut the door behind me, my phone began buzzing nonstop. One message after another filled the screen—venues secured, designers contacted, guest lists approved, timelines locked in. Everything moved with ruthless efficiency.

I scrolled until I reached her final message.

I always knew Lorenzo wasn’t your future. A man who wants to marry a woman doesn’t make her wait eight years. You still have time, Sofia. Everything is ready.

Another message followed seconds later.

The ceremony is in three days. Bring only what you need. Don’t complicate things.

The simplicity of it was almost brutal. While I’d been clinging to Lorenzo’s vague reassurances and unfinished promises, everyone else had already accepted the truth I refused to see—he was never going to choose me.

I took a slow breath and sent her a voice message.

“Mom, handle everything as you see fit. I trust you. I don’t need anything grand. Keep it simple.”

I didn’t realize Lorenzo had come home until his voice sliced through the room, sharp with disbelief.

“A ceremony?” he said. “What ceremony?”

My body stiffened. I ended the call too quickly, but he was already moving toward me, hand outstretched. Before he could grab my phone, his own rang—loud, urgent, impossible to ignore.

Francesca’s voice poured out the moment he answered, shaky and panicked.

“Lorenzo, I think someone’s tailing me. I changed routes twice, but I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”

His expression shifted instantly. Concern replaced confusion, his jaw tightening.

“Stay somewhere public,” he said, already reaching for his jacket. “Don’t leave. I’m coming.”

He didn’t look at me again. The door slammed shut behind him, echoing through the apartment.

I stayed where I was, perfectly still, my face calm even as something inside me finally broke free.

Once the silence settled, I called my Aunt Lyra. After my parents moved overseas years ago to expand the family’s criminal empire, she’d been the one who raised me.

Lorenzo and I grew up together—neighbors, allies, something that hovered just short of commitment. When Lyra married and left the country, I stayed behind. What was meant to be temporary quietly stretched into eight long years of shared space and undefined loyalty.

When she answered, her voice was bright with surprise.

“You’re getting married? To Lorenzo? Finally. Eight years is long enough, Sofia.”

I paused before correcting her.

“No, Aunt Lyra. It’s an arranged marriage. I haven’t even met the man yet.”

Silence followed, heavy and cautious.

“Are you certain?” she asked gently. “Lorenzo cares for you. Maybe he just needs pressure. I could talk to him.”

A short, bitter laugh slipped out.

“If he cared, he wouldn’t have needed eight years to decide. I waited while he kept me suspended between hope and nothing. What we had wasn’t love—it was convenience. And I won’t waste another year waiting for him to choose me.”

She sighed, conflicted, but she didn’t argue. In the end, she promised to stand by me.

That night, before I slept, I set a countdown on my phone.

Three days until I walked away from the life I’d been clinging to.

The next morning, I asked my mother to prepare farewell gifts for Aunt Lyra—small tokens of gratitude for the years she’d protected me.

That evening, as I gave instructions to the delivery driver, I felt a familiar presence. Lorenzo stood nearby, watching, his gaze sharp.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

“Just gifts,” I said evenly. “For my aunt.”

“Gifts?” His voice lowered. “Why?”

“Because I’m leaving.”

Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t ask anything else. Maybe he thought I was bluffing.

Then Francesca appeared. Her heels clicked against the pavement as she slipped effortlessly into his side, looping her arm through his like it belonged there.

“Thank you for last night,” she said softly, smiling up at him. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

I stepped back, done watching.

As I turned away, I heard her laugh.

“She’s so quiet, isn’t she? Sometimes I forget she’s even around.”

Whatever Lorenzo said in response no longer mattered.

He’d made his choice—over and over again.

This time, I was finally making mine.