30 Days Before Divorce: Mafia Don’s Regret Can’t Win Me Back Chapter 01

30 Days Before Divorce: Mafia Don’s Regret Can’t Win Me Back Chapter 01

The moment he said he wanted a divorce, I was lifting a piece of T-bone steak to my mouth.

“I want a divorce.” Andrea Camorra set his fork down.

His tone was casual. Like he was ordering a hit on a traitor.

I bit into the steak, chewed twice, and swallowed. “Okay.”

He froze. His fork hung in midair, never reaching his lips.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

I kept eating.

The steak was cooked perfectly. Tender, juicy. I’d spent forty minutes on it.

He didn’t take another bite.

I finished the last piece, stood up, and told the maid to clear the table.

As I walked past him, he grabbed my wrist.

“Chiara, I said I want a divorce. You’re no longer the Donna of the Camorra family.”

I looked down at his hand. Then I looked up at his face.

“I heard you. I said okay.”

His fingers loosened.

I walked back to the master bathroom and turned on the faucet.

The sound of rushing water roared in my ears, drowning out the tremor in my chest.

It also drowned out the faint flutter I felt when my hand pressed against my lower belly.

I turned off the faucet. The master bedroom fell silent again.

I dried my hands and picked up my phone from the vanity.

A message from my best friend Elena Ricci still glowed on the screen. Sent three minutes ago.

[Business license got approved. We can pick it up tomorrow.]

I typed back a quick “Got it” and slipped the phone into my pocket.

Andrea stood in the bedroom doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame.

“That’s it? You’re not even going to ask why?”

I picked up the hand towel, folded it carefully, and placed it inside the storage box in the walk-in closet.

He’d given it to me during our first year of marriage.

Pale lilac silk, with a tiny daisy embroidered in one corner.

Three years later, the edges were starting to fray.

“No.” I said.

His jaw tightened.

I’d been married into the Camorra family for six years. I knew that expression far too well.

He was waiting for me to cry. Waiting for me to throw a fit, grab his sleeve and demand to know if there was another woman, or if his mother Madre Bruno had been whispering in his ear again.

Then he’d slam the door on his way out.

And toss back his favorite line: “You always overreact.”

I’d played the role of his boring, obedient Donna for three years. I knew the script by heart.

But I was done performing.

“So… Monday I’ll have the family lawyer meet at the conference room in headquarters?” He was testing the waters.

“Fine. Morning or afternoon?”

“Morning. Nine o’clock.”

“Got it. I’ll set an alarm.”

I walked past him and lay down on the bed.

I looked around the bedroom calmly. This room had been a marriage in name only for a long time now.

Three months ago, after a vicious argument, he’d moved into the study.

I stayed in the bedroom alone.

The estate sprawled across fourteen acres. We lived at opposite ends, separated by a hallway and three months of silence.

I locked the door and pulled open the deepest drawer of the wardrobe.

Beneath a pile of clothes sat a document folder.

Inside was a freshly signed lease for the Silva Apartments.

A bank card holding three years of savings.

And at the very bottom, a detailed ultrasound report I’d picked up that afternoon.

On the scan, a tiny figure curled into a ball, limbs clearly visible.

Thirty-two weeks. Eight months.

I placed my hand on my belly. Beneath the loose silk nightgown, the bump was already obvious.

But Andrea would never notice.

He hadn’t truly looked at me in three months.