It was my sixth year with the Mafia Don. On the night of my birthday, he came home with a young, beautiful stranger by his side.

Everyone thought I would break down or fall apart because of his betrayal. Instead, I smiled, my fingertips brushing lightly over the diamond ring on my ring finger. What they didn’t know was that I had come for revenge.

Six years ago, he killed my father and my fiancé. So, I remained by his side, waiting for the right moment to send him to hell.

How could I have fallen for him?

Late at night, the entire manor was lit up. I sat alone at the long dining table and relit the candles on the birthday cake.

“Eliza, stop waiting.

“The Don said he has business tonight. He’s not coming back.”

The lighter clicked open and shut in my palm, its faint blue flame flickering in the dark. I stared at the unsteady fire and replied calmly, “If he doesn’t come back, then I’ll keep waiting. He promised he would spend my birthday with me every year. I’m going to wait for him.”

I refused to believe he would forget my birthday.

Mark Carillo was the youngest Mafia Don in Sicily. When he gave his word, he kept it. He had never broken a promise. He had taken a family that was on the brink of collapse and turned it into a force that now controlled half the Mediterranean underground scene, all because he always honored his word.

By three in the morning, the manor was still silent. He wasn’t coming back, and everyone understood that. The living room was filled with bodyguards in tailored suits. Anyone who didn’t know better would think I was preparing for a shootout instead of waiting for my husband.

Disappointed, I finally stood up, ready to leave. That was when the low growl of an engine echoed from outside.

“Eliza! The Don’s back!”

I walked to the balcony and looked down.

Yes. He had come back, but he wasn’t alone.

“Mark, why are you home so late? Where did you go? And who is the woman in your arms?” I frowned as I called down to the man standing below.

A deep wound ran from his brow to his cheekbone, cut so viciously it nearly exposed bone. Blood still seeped slowly from the gash. The injury only made his already imposing face look even more ruthless.

I hurried downstairs, grabbing gauze to clean the blood, but he caught my wrist before I could touch him.

“Eliza, who allowed you to speak to me in that tone? Have I spoiled you too much all these years?”

He looked down at me. His voice was gentle, but there was an unmistakable authority that couldn’t be questioned.

I lowered my eyes. “I’m sorry. I was just angry. Yesterday was my birthday. You promised you’d spend it with me every year.”

He let out a soft laugh, his thumb brushing slowly against my chin. “So it was your birthday…”

“Who is the woman you brought back?”

I gently turned my chin away from his grip, successfully shifting the topic.

His brows furrowed slightly, and he deliberately avoided my gaze. “Eliza, you’re crossing the line.”

I froze.

He took the gauze from my hand, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Instead of worrying about who I brought home, why don’t you worry about how I got injured?”

Before I could respond, he bit lightly against my lower lip—a subtle punishment.

“Baby, I’ve really spoiled you for nothing.”

Over the next few days, the wind sweeping through Sicily carried the chill of early spring. It cut through layers of clothing and seeped straight into your bones.

I stood on the top floor of an abandoned factory, wind rushing through the broken windows. From somewhere below, the dull sounds of fists and kicks echoed faintly through the empty structure.

Paolo held out a cigarette to me. I lifted my hand and pushed it away.

“No. Mark doesn’t like it when I smoke.”

Then, I turned to him. “By the way, look into the woman Mark brought back last night.”

“You want to investigate the Don’s woman?” Paolo asked. “Eliza, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. The Don won’t be happy if he finds out.”

“And if I insist? Paolo, are you helping me or not?”

He sighed. “Eliza, you’re my friend. Of course I’ll help you. But let me tell you something: you’re the smartest woman I’ve ever met, so you should understand better than anyone that love is the last thing that should exist in our world.”

He shoved both hands into his coat pockets and stared down at the ruins below with me.

“You know the Don will never marry you. It’s only because you risked your life for him that he treats you well. But marry you?” He shook his head slightly. “You know that’s impossible.”

I knew that. Mark trusted me. He had spoiled me and favored me all these years because I once took a bullet for him; I saved his life.

Over the last six years, there wasn’t a single person in our circle whose hands were bloodier than mine. Sometimes, when I looked into the mirror in the middle of the night, I felt like a demon crawling out of hell. Sometimes, I even forgot who I was.

I lifted my head and looked at the gray, overcast sky. I didn’t care how many women Mark had. I was just afraid that the six years I had spent lying low, enduring and waiting, would be thrown off course by one unexpected woman.

“Let’s go,” I said. “It’s time to meet the young lady the Don brought home.”

The place Mark arranged for her to live in was the most luxurious ocean-view villa in Taormina. When I stepped inside, I saw a young woman sitting on the sofa in a silk slip dress, quietly reading a book.

The moment she saw me, she stood up nervously. Her eyes flickered uncertainly. “You… Are you the Don’s wife?”

I was slightly surprised by the question. I walked over and sat down on the sofa across from her.

“No.”

“Oh…”

The girl shrank back toward the corner, looking disappointed. “I thought… I thought the only woman worthy of the Don would be someone beautiful and capable like you.”

Her eyes were filled with a kind of innocence untouched by the world.

I let out a silent laugh in my heart. Here was another woman fooled by Mark’s carefully crafted mask. I was just about to reach out and pat her head when a sharp voice cut through the room.

“Miss Eliza, the Don has given orders. You are not allowed to touch Miss Lillian.”

Several bodyguards immediately surrounded us. Although they still showed me a certain degree of respect, their stance was clearly defensive.

“Please do not come to this villa again,” one of them said. “This is now Miss Lillian’s residence.”

The girl curled up in fear, shrinking into herself.

I raised an eyebrow. Even I wasn’t allowed to touch her? I had never seen this level of protection before.

“Fine. I’m leaving.”

Over the years, Mark had had countless women by his side, but never once had any of them received treatment like that. So what exactly made her different?

“Eliza, all the information we could get is here.”

Inside the car, Paulo handed me a thick stack of files. The data was pitifully sparse, but then, this was probably all Mark wanted me to see.

Lillian White was nineteen years old, ten years younger than Mark. Her parents were both dead, and she had grown up in an orphanage in Palermo. Her social connections were simple and limited.

“The Don treats her… differently,” Paulo murmured in my ear.

Could it be that Lillian was Mark’s true love?

I bit my nails, lost in thought. Mark had clawed his way to where he was now. By this point, he had no weak spots. He was young, ruthless, and brilliant. I had watched him build his family into the empire it was today, so I wasn’t sure whether seeking revenge on him was right or wrong.

It was right because I had become his confidante, trusted as deeply as his own underboss.

It was wrong because I hadn’t anticipated how rapidly his power would grow, making revenge far harder than I had imagined.

“The Don said…” Paulo patted my shoulder and said, “He wants your risotto.”

If Mark wanted it, I had no choice but to cook.

I told the driver, “Turn around. Let’s go.”

The villa where Lillian lived was just one of Mark’s many properties—ordinary compared to the rest. The place I was heading to was his true home, a quietly luxurious cliffside estate.

I carried the ingredients inside alone, preparing to cook and simmer the broth. Mark had surely eaten at countless Michelin-starred restaurants, so why would he like my cooking? Yet every time I cooked, he would stand at the kitchen doorway, eyes locked on me. That gaze was exactly like a husband waiting for his wife to return home. Every time I thought of it, my stomach churned.

This time, I was slicing onions when he appeared silently behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I hadn’t noticed him at all.

“Don’t touch me. My hands are dirty,” I said instinctively.

He chuckled softly, resting his chin in the hollow of my shoulder, his breath brushing my ear. “Oh? Dirty? Let me see.”

I ignored him and turned on the faucet. He naturally took my fingers in his hand, washing them with practiced ease.

Just as I was about to say something, his lips rained over my neck in a slow, teasing flurry.