The Don’s Discarded Bride Chapter 07

The Don’s Discarded Bride Chapter 07

In the bleak days of arranging my mother’s funeral, I also tendered my resignation from the family’s operations. I couldn’t bear to remain in any place that still carried the shadow of Adrian Moretti. 

My father, Vincenzo Rosino, stared at me in silence for a long moment, then said only, 

You’ve made up your mind? Stay, and I will avenge your mother. 

I didn’t reply. I just turned and walked out of his office. He didn’t stop me. He knew his daughter 

too well. 

I erased every trace of Adrian Moretti from my life. Changed my phone number, every social media. 

account tied to it. 

Once I was satisfied that no trace remained, I took 

my mother’s ashes to the place she had always. 

longed for–the small Italian village of her birth, at 

home her feet had never again touched in all her 

years. 

I wandered her village under the blazing Tuscan 

sun, ate gelato on Rome’s cobblestone streets. My 

father’s men shadowed me from a distance, 

keeping watch but never intruding. 

Two months later, a former colleague, Sophie Carter, sent me an unexpected video. 

The video showed a Laurel I barely recognized. The sharp, polished girl was gone, replaced by a gaunt, hollow–cheeked woman who looked as if a decade of hardship had been compressed into a few brutal weeks. 

She forced herself to pack her desk while her coworkers whispered and pointed. 

Sophie’s message popped up right after, 

The Don fired her. Now she’s screaming for severance from the family business, threatening to sue if she doesn’t get a penny. Everyone knows 

how kind you were to her, and she still stabbed 

you in the back. Who’d trust someone that 

ungrateful? Good riddance to bad rubbish. 

I watched a few seconds, then closed the video. 

Her end was written long ago. I had no desire to 

kick her while she was down. 

Even when mutual friends told me Adrian had 

been temporarily stripped of his control over the 

Brooklyn waterfront by his father, I felt nothing. 

The boy I’d loved with all my heart had died on my wedding day, right alongside my mother. 

One afternoon, after walking the length of the 

Ponte Vecchio, I found a quiet spot. I pulled the 

worn photograph of my mother from my wallet 

and held it up, framing us both against the 

backdrop of the Arno. I took the picture. 

Autumn wind swirled sycamore leaves around my feet. I pulled my wool scarf tighter. 

A young girl carrying a bucket of flowers walked 

up to me, grinning brightly, 

Signorina, would you like some flowers? The 

baby’s breath is lovely. 

I offered a faint smile and selected a single, delicate sprig. My fingers had just found my wallet when another hand–larger, familiar–closed over 

mine, stopping the motion. A voice, just as 

familiar, spoke from behind my shoulder. “Allow 

me.” 

I looked up into that all–too–familiar face and said 

coldly, 

No. I can pay for myself. 

I paid in cash. The girl scurried off to find her next 

customer. 

He stared at the flower in my hand and said 

hesitantly, 

You still love baby’s breath. I thought… 

“It has nothing to do with the flower,” I said, my voice flat, closing the door on that line of 

conversation, on that shared past. 

He saw my icy tone and rushed on, desperate, 

Clara, these past months I’ve… 

I cut him off sharply, 

Adrian Moretti, I don’t want to hear a single word 

from you. 

He stared, stunned. He’d never heard me speak to 

him like that. 

Clara, why have you been running from me? 

I laughed, cold and bitter. 

Because I never want to lay eyes on you again for 

as long as I live. 

He saw the raw hatred in my eyes, and his breath 

caught in his throat. 

After a long, suffocating silence, he forced the 

words out, 

Clara… do you hate me? 

I lowered my gaze and laughed, sharp and 

mocking. Was that even a question? I didn’t know 

what game he was playing. 

Adrian Moretti, you killed my mother. How could I 

not?