My Don Forgot Who Gave Him Everything Chapter 01

My Don Forgot Who Gave Him Everything Chapter 01

“Elena, let’s get divorced.”

My mafia husband, the man I had loved for eleven years, sat across from me with not so much as a crease in the cuff of his suit.

When Matteo Rinaldi said it, his tone was so calm that he might as well have been discussing an ordinary merger agreement.

“I want to give Lila a proper title at my side.”

I looked at the black-and-gold Rinaldi Family ring on his finger and suddenly found it almost funny.

It had been eleven years.

I had stayed by his side when he was still a Family heir answering to the older capos and Family elders. I stayed with him until he became the front-business boss controlling Rinaldi Data, the East River dock payment system, and several legal gambling operations.

He thought he had finally earned the right to choose love.

And I withdrew every road I had spent the past eleven years paving for him.

That meant the port contracts, media protection, law-firm backing, platform relationships, and the weight of the Rossetti name.

I wanted none of it anymore.

I wanted to see just how far the name Matteo Rinaldi could go without me.

…

At nine o’clock the next morning, we went to Holland & Crane Law Office near Foley Square.

It was the family law firm most often used by New York’s elite. Two black SUVs were parked downstairs, with Matteo’s driver and two bodyguards standing beside them. When the glass doors opened and the receptionist saw us walk in together, she visibly froze.

She knew me.

She knew Matteo too.

And she knew exactly what it meant when the names Rinaldi and Rossetti sat in the same conference room. It was never just about a marriage.

The attorney pushed the documents toward us and spoke in a careful, quiet voice.

“Mr. Rinaldi, Mrs. Rinaldi, are you both certain you want to file this divorce agreement?”

Matteo said nothing.

I answered for him, “Yes.”

The attorney paused, then asked for the reason as procedure required.

I looked down at the polished legal language printed in black and white and gave a small smile.

“Irreconcilable differences.”

It was such a dignified phrase.

So dignified that everyone in the conference room lowered their eyes.

The real reason was clear to everyone.

A young woman had recently started appearing around Matteo and the Rinaldi Family. Her name was Lila Hart.

She worked at the coffee shop below Rinaldi Data’s offices and sometimes served drinks at charity nights in his private club. She was young and pretty, and whenever she tilted her face up and called him Matteo, she looked like the only clean light in his gray world.

He drove her to and from work.

When she got sick, he cleared out the best room in the private hospital under the Rinaldi name for her.

On the night of the university’s centennial gala, he sent her flowers in front of every media outlet there. Huge arrangements of white roses and champagne tulips filled the stage, and even the host from the alumni association froze for a moment.

Matteo stood below the stage in a perfectly tailored suit, his expression so gentle that he looked nothing like the man even capos were afraid to look in the eye.

Someone asked him why he had added such a large sponsorship at the last minute.

He gave a faint smile.

“Lila is performing tonight. Of course I’m going to support her.”

In that moment, thunderous applause filled the room.

I sat in the front row and saw that the Rossetti Foundation nameplate was still placed among the sponsors.

I did not clap.

I simply lowered my head and sent Nora Hayes a message.

Me: [Starting today, you don’t need to keep shielding the Rinaldi Family anymore.]

The attorney handed me a pen.

When I signed the name Elena Rossetti, Matteo finally looked up at me.

He seemed to be searching my face for anger, or maybe for reluctance.

Unfortunately for him, there was none.

I never used anything someone else had already touched.

Not even something I had loved for eleven years.

Half an hour later, we each received a divorce filing receipt.

When we stepped out of the law office, wind swept in from the corner of Foley Square and blew my hair out of place.

Matteo lifted his hand, almost out of habit, as if he meant to smooth it for me.

His hand stopped in midair.

I paused too.

Then I took half a step back.

His eyes darkened slightly.

“Where are you going? I’ll drive you.”

I wanted to refuse.

But his driver had already opened the rear door.

In the past, I always sat in the passenger seat. Matteo used to say he did not like me sitting behind him like a guest.

Today, under his gaze, I bent down and got into the back seat.

The door closed.

A brief silence settled over the front seats.

Matteo watched me through the rearview mirror, his face unreadable.

“You’re that eager to draw a line between us?”

I almost called him by the old intimate name, but in the end, I only said calmly, “Matteo, we’re already in the middle of a divorce.”

His fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel.

“I’ll handle both sets of parents.”

He had always been like that.

Ever since we were children, he had been used to handling everything that had to do with me himself.

But back then, Matteo was not yet the man who made people lower their heads and call him Don.

Back then, he was painfully skinny, all elbows and long limbs, quiet and shy. In the old neighborhood where we grew up, older boys were always cornering him in alleys and snatching his backpack.

I had a wild streak, and the Rossetti Family had spoiled me rotten since the day I was born.

Because his mother always baked almond biscotti for me, I climbed onto the stage at the community center and announced to every kid on the block, “Matteo Rinaldi is under my protection.”

From then on, no one dared to bully him again.

Later, he grew into himself and became the most aloof, most popular boy in high school.

After that, he pushed me until we both got into the same university.

On graduation day, he reserved the school planetarium and shut off the lights in the entire building just to light up a universe I had never seen before.

He held my hand, his palm slick with sweat.

“Elena, marry me.”

“I swear on my life that I’ll treat you right for the rest of my life.”

I did not hesitate then.

And I did not hesitate now.

“I’ll tell the Rossettis myself,” I said, looking out the window. “You don’t need to bother.”

The car fell silent.

After a moment, Matteo let out a low laugh.

“What are you planning to say?”

I did not answer.

He asked again, “Elena, don’t tell me you regret this.”