At the underground black market auction in New York, Lorenzo Moretti won a rare red diamond with a bid so high it made jaws drop.

The entire Commission was waiting for the other shoe to drop—waiting to see me become a joke.

Because in the Moretti family, every time Lorenzo gives away a diamond, it represents another one of his betrayals.

White diamonds are hush money to cover up tabloid scandals.

Blue diamonds mean he had a "slip-up" at some wild party.

Pink diamonds mean I caught him in his private apartment, rolling in the sheets with another woman with my own eyes.

But this time was different. It was a rare red diamond.

Everyone guessed the Don was preparing to divorce me.

Instead, Lorenzo publicly declared his love. He said this red diamond represented a "Blood Oath"—a symbol of his true heart and loyalty to me.

He said that from now on, he would return to the family and pledge his allegiance only to me.

Everyone congratulated me on finally taming the Sicilian Wolf.

I, however, left the signed divorce papers in the safe, and all alone, I left him forever.

"Gently, Caro."

The moment the encrypted video call connected, the sound came through before the picture—Lorenzo’s signature deep voice, raspy with the aftermath of lust.

The camera shook. In a fleeting glimpse, I saw his bare upper body, covered in totem tattoos, leaning against a velvet headboard. A lock of long, chestnut hair was tangled around his muscular waist.

My throat felt like it had been scorched by gunpowder. I asked, trembling, "Lorenzo, where are you?"

The next second, the signal was cut.

It took half an hour for him to call back.

Lorenzo was fully dressed now in an expensive, hand-tailored suit. He was sitting on a hotel terrace in Sicily, swirling whiskey in a glass, his expression impeccably calm.

"Elena, I’m at the safe house. The TV was on, the volume was too loud."

"I’m bringing the diamond back to New York tomorrow. Ti amo. Happy seventh anniversary."

Under the Mediterranean sun, the red diamond in his palm refracted a dazzling, blood-colored light.

On the TV screen behind him, a press conference was playing where he announced that the "Moretti Family will place greater importance on family values."

Lorenzo’s deep blue eyes held a look of devotion that overlapped with the voice on the TV:

"Elena, I couldn't think of a better seventh-anniversary gift. This red diamond represents 'Loyalty.' Are you pleased?"

For a moment, I almost forgot that he had just crawled out of another woman's bed.

My dead heart shamefully sparked with a tiny flicker of hope.

From the day we married in the cathedral, tomorrow would mark exactly seven years.

As the Mafia Don, his reputation as a playboy who drifted through flower gardens of lovers had never changed.

But "returning to the family"—this was the first time he had ever said those words.

I asked cautiously, needing confirmation, "Lorenzo, are you serious? If you’re lying, God will punish you."

"Every family in New York heard it. They’ll take it seriously, too."

His eyes flickered slightly. He looked down to light a cigar. Through the swirling smoke, his smile was lazy and charming.

"When we married, I swore before the Virgin Mary: within seven years, I would either leave the family with nothing, or buy the red diamond, settle down, and live as a true, ordinary couple with you."

"I am a Moretti. I keep my word."

Huge joy rushed to my head, and I could only nod like a fool.

I looked down at the pregnancy test in my hand, showing two clear lines. My voice was full of anticipation:

"I have a gift for you, too."

"Papa—"

The instant I hung up the phone.

A young but clear child’s voice pierced through the receiver.

I stood there, struck by lightning, my body stiff.

I reached out to call back, but a harsh glare reflecting off the vanity table stung my eyes.

I looked up.

In front of me, the massive bulletproof glass jewelry cabinet was filled with diamonds arranged by color.

Seventeen white diamond bracelets. Three blue diamond brooches.

And two pink diamond necklaces.

These weren't just jewelry. These were the seventeen scars, three betrayals, and two humiliations of catching him in the act that Lorenzo Moretti had carved into my heart over the past seven years.

Every time he made a mistake, this man with blood on his hands would come back with these expensive stones, eyes red, kneeling on one knee before me, kissing the back of my hand.

He would say "Mi dispiace" over and over again.

He would beg me not to leave, over and over again.

"Elena, it’s a sickness. I have a sickness where I can’t control my desires, and only you can cure me. In this world full of slaughter, only by your side am I truly alive."

Time and time again, I grabbed his collar, screamed, clawed at him in pain, but in the end, I always chose to forgive.

Seven years.

I thought the prodigal son had finally returned.

It turned out this was just a cruel joke played by God.

I didn't wait for the next day.

That night, I used my connections within the family to access Lorenzo’s private flight logs. The moment he landed, I stormed into a hidden apartment he owned in Brooklyn.

As the mistress of the Moretti family, my greatest privilege was the legal right to mobilize the family’s "eyes."

Unlike the cold, fortress-like mansion I lived in on Long Island, this was a red-brick building full of life.

At the dining table, Lorenzo had shed his Don aura. He was sitting there, peeling a boiled egg.

A little boy, who looked like he was carved from the same mold as Lorenzo, sat opposite him, waiting with eyes full of anticipation to be fed.

My blood felt like it was flowing in reverse. My nose stung, and the last shred of hope in my heart shattered like glass hit by a shotgun blast.

Crash.

The woman walking out of the kitchen froze, her smile vanishing as the plate in her hands smashed onto the floor.

"Mrs. Elena..."

I recognized her.

Sofia. Six years ago, she was Lorenzo’s personal assistant—and the "contributor" of the first pink diamond necklace in my cabinet.

After I caught them in bed back then, I used family law to have her exiled.

I thought they had cut ties completely after that.

Sofia backed away in terror, inching behind Lorenzo like a little white rabbit seeking protection. "Mrs. Elena, how did you find this place..."

"I’m here to take my husband home."

I stared expressionlessly at her beautiful chestnut hair.

My gaze traveled down, landing on her neck—on the red diamond that was supposed to belong to me, the one representing Lorenzo’s "true heart."

The thought of what they did in that hotel in Sicily yesterday made my heart feel like it was swallowing razor blades. It hurt so much I trembled.

Lorenzo finally reacted. That face, usually unshakable even if a mountain collapsed before him, showed a rare panic.

He shot up, ripping the red diamond off Sofia’s neck.

He stepped forward quickly, grabbing my hand, trying to pull me into his arms and get me out of there, just like every apology over the last seven years.

"Elena, don't misunderstand. This red diamond is for you. Sofia said she’d never seen a gem of this quality in her life and wanted to try it on, so I..."

"I’ll explain everything when we get back, in the name of God."

He pulled me, trying to leave. Just as we were about to walk out the door, the child suddenly rushed over, grabbing onto Lorenzo’s jacket tightly, his face red as he screamed:

"Papa, do you not want me and Mamma anymore?"

Lorenzo froze, a look of conflict crossing his face.

Seeing me in Lorenzo's arms, the child immediately started wailing.

"You bad woman! You’re trying to steal my Papa!"

He screamed and charged at me like a little out-of-control beast, kicking my shins viciously.

Though only a few years old, the kid was shockingly strong.

His nails dug into my thigh, and his fists hammered hard against my stomach.

After two or three punches, a sharp, cramping pain shot through my abdomen, followed by a terrifying sensation of downward pressure.

I frowned in pain and instinctively tried to push him away.

But before my hand even touched him, the kid threw himself backward, landing on his butt and wailing at the top of his lungs.

"Papa! Leo hurts! She hit me! The bad woman hit me!"

Almost instinctively, the hand on my waist withdrew instantly.

Lorenzo turned to pick up the child.

Caught off guard, I fell heavily onto the hard wooden floor. The pain made my fingers curl and my scalp tingle.

Clutching my stomach, I looked up to see the boy named Leo resting on Lorenzo’s shoulder, making a vicious face at me.

Yet, his voice was full of tearful whining: "Papa, why are you holding the bad woman?"

"Don't you want Mamma? Don't you want Leo?"

Before I could speak, Sofia rushed forward and fell to her knees in front of me, trembling and crying, looking utterly pathetic.

"Madam, hit me if you want, kill me if you want."

"It’s my fault for being shameless, for insisting on giving birth to this child. I never wanted to fight for the position of the Don’s wife. I just wanted Leo to know that, like other kids, he has a daddy who loves him."

"Please, keep Leo. Let him live with Lorenzo. If I am the problem, I’m willing to die!"

With that, she turned and made a move to slam her head against the fireplace.

"Sofia!"

Lorenzo’s voice was stern but pained. He took two steps and grabbed her.

Looking at her tear-stained face, his expression was complicated. He looked back at his illegitimate son crying on the floor, and finally let out a long sigh, his tone softening.

"Enough. I will handle it."

He turned to look at me, brows furrowed, a trace of impatience in his voice.

"Elena. Leo is small, he doesn't know any better. How much could his punches hurt? Why do you have to be so aggressive? I’ll apologize for him, okay?"

"I planned to tell you tonight when I got back, but you just had to use family connections to investigate me. You ran over here to cause a scene so no one can have any peace."

"Sofia has depression. She didn't want to destroy our marriage. Didn't we always want an heir? Now we have Leo. Later, we can legally adopt him under your name. He’ll be our child. You should be happy."

"Happy?"

I felt a wave of absurdity.

"Lorenzo, is this what you call returning to the family?"

"Because she’s sick, you have to stay here and play house with her? Because she’s sick, you have to sleep with her? Because she’s sick, you give me this big 'surprise' on our anniversary?"

I pulled at the corner of my mouth, tasting the salt of my tears.

I wiped them away, my gaze sweeping over this home inch by inch.

There were no expensive oil paintings here, no bulletproof installations. Just Lego toys and children's books scattered on the floor.

On the wall were doodles drawn with crayons.

Blue sky, white clouds, a family of three.

In the corner, Lorenzo’s flowing signature was signed neatly—the same formal signature he used only for family execution orders or major contracts.

On the doorframe nearby, there were notches marking the child's height.

The latest date was yesterday.

I recognized the handwriting immediately; it was clearly Lorenzo’s.

Before every dating anniversary, every wedding anniversary, he would disappear. It turned out he came here.

To be with this warm, little family.

Compared to the money he spent on other women, this place was too ordinary, yet blindingly cozy.

It turned out, in this moment, I was the "third party" intruding on someone else's harmonious life.

I turned back. The fabric crushing under my hand wasn't Lorenzo’s dress shirt anymore.

He was wearing matching parent-child pajamas, identical to Sofia’s and the bastard child’s.

I looked at him, and suddenly, I laughed out loud.

Laughing and laughing until tears rolled down my face.

I pushed him away, pressing my hand against his chest, my eyes cold as iron. "Lorenzo, you are the Don. You can decide the life and death of many, but I never thought you would scheme against me, too."

I raised my hand and wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes.

"Lorenzo, let's get a divorce."

Here is the translation, maintaining the gritty, dramatic tone of a Western Dark Mafia Romance.

"Divorce?"

Lorenzo looked stunned, completely caught off guard.

In a traditional Mafia family, divorce isn’t just a taboo; it’s a humiliation. Unless one party ends up in a casket, the marriage contract is ironclad.

Lorenzo’s face went pale, his eyes instantly turning ferocious. He growled low in his throat, "Impossible! Elena, unless I die, you are a Moretti forever!"

Suddenly, he rushed over. Ignoring my struggles, he dragged me by the arm, shoved me into a room, and slammed the door shut.

The moment the door closed, I heard the heavy sound of the lock clicking from the outside.

That shove sent a sharp spike of agony through my already aching lower abdomen.

I thought about the fall I just took, and then I thought about the baby in my belly. Terror drowned me in an instant.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my voice as I begged him, "Lorenzo, my stomach hurts. I won’t fight with you anymore. Just take me to the hospital first, okay? Please."

Through the heavy solid wood door, his voice sounded pained and paranoid. "Elena, stop lying to me. If I let you out, you’ll leave me. You promised the priest you’d stay with me for life."

"I won’t sign the papers. Just let that dream die."

"I’ll handle the Sofia situation. I want the child, and don't you even think about running!"

"Lorenzo, I’m really in pain! It’s our baby..."

But the footsteps outside drifted further away until they vanished.

No matter how hard I pounded on the door, no matter how much I screamed, no one answered.

I don’t know how much time passed. My throat was so hoarse I couldn’t make a sound.

The pain in my stomach grew more intense, and a warm liquid rushed down my thighs.

My dress was stained with a large patch of blood—a bright, crimson red, looking exactly like that red diamond in his hand.

Waves of cold washed over my body. Somewhere deep down, I felt the life inside me slipping away, bit by bit.

Just then, a rustling sound came from under the door gap.

I thought Lorenzo had come back, and a spark of hope ignited in my chest.

"Lorenzo! Lorenzo! I’m bleeding! Call an ambulance!"

However, the response wasn't the sound of the door opening. It was several balls of lit newspaper and strips of cloth soaked in alcohol being shoved through the gap.

The storage room, already sealed tight, was instantly filled with fire and rolling thick smoke. It choked me, stinging my eyes shut.

From outside came that child’s vicious, immature voice:

"Bad woman! Papa left you to me and Mamma. He went back to New York. No one will save you no matter how much you scream. You can just die in there!"

A child.

My child was gone.

And his child wanted my life.

I couldn't wait any longer.

I staggered to my feet. This was a second-floor storage room with only a small, high-positioned ventilation skylight.

I looked around and found only an old, dusty sheet in the corner.

Biting my lip until it bled, the sharp pain brought a moment of clarity to my consciousness. I wrapped the sheet tightly around my hand, binding it the way a boxer wraps their knuckles.

Facing that reinforced glass window, I used every ounce of strength I had left and smashed my fist against it.

Once. Twice.

The pain felt like my hand bones were shattering. My vision went black, and I nearly fainted.

It wasn't until the seventeenth hit—as long and painful as the seventeen white diamond bracelets he gave me—that the glass finally shattered.

I climbed out through that tiny skylight.

Shards of glass sliced my arms and thighs. Covered in blood, I looked like a vengeful spirit crawling out of hell.

I jumped from the second floor onto a pile of garbage in the back alley. Dragging my broken body, I flagged down a passing black sedan on the roadside.

"Take me to the nearest hospital... Tell them I am a Moretti."

As soon as the words left my mouth, I plunged completely into darkness.