After 7 Years of Going Dutch, I Returned Home as a Mafia Heiress Chapter 11
The days were long, but the years were short.
International acquisitions closed, one after another. The soldati under my command were honed into weapons of absolute loyalty.
On weekends, I would go to the penthouse shooting range for target practice, throw parties on yachts with friends from the business world, or simply enjoy the breeze quietly on the terrace of the estate.
Eventually, I met someone new. A new relationship bloomed. A marriage was planned.
The night of my engagement, I was curled up lazily in a leather sofa at the estate, twisting the pigeon’s blood ruby on my ring finger.
My private phone, resting on the coffee table, lit up.
I swiped the screen. It was a short text from an unsaved number:
[Vivian, will you really never look back?]
I stared at it expressionlessly for two seconds.
Then I hit the lock button and placed the phone face down on the table.
My fiancé, Luca, the heir to another powerful family, walked over from the bar carrying two glasses of bourbon on the rocks.
“Who dares to text my princess in the middle of the night?”
“Just spam.”
He chuckled softly, sat down next to me, and wrapped his solid arm around my waist.
“Is the ring size too tight?”
“It’s perfect.”
“I had our jeweler measure it three times. I was terrified it would be too tight.”
He took my hand, lowered his head, and kissed the back of it. His deep eyes held a wild infatuation. “It suits you.”
Another seven years passed in a flash.
On a sun-drenched afternoon, my six-year-old daughter was digging through old belongings from a storage cabinet in the study, making a mess all over the floor..
When I walked in with a black coffee, she was holding up a heavily yellowed envelope, looking up at me.
“Mama, what’s this?”
I bent down and took it.
The wax seal on the envelope had long since cracked, the edges worn rough and frayed.
I flipped it over. Written on the back were two short sentences.
[Congratulations on your wedding. I am sorry for everything.]
