The Don Who Chose Wrong Chapter 09

The Don Who Chose Wrong Chapter 09

One year later, I sat in my downtown Los Angeles office. 

Reviewing contracts for a new casino partnership. 

Through the floor–to–ceiling windows, the Pacific glittered in 

the distance. The ocean breeze seemed to cut through the 

glass. Refreshing. 

My phone buzzed. A text from Marco. His tone carried that 

playful arrogance I loved: [Dinner at 7? I’m cooking.] 

I smiled and typed back: [You mean ordering takeout? I’m not 

falling for that.] 

His reply was instant: [I’m making pasta from scratch. See it to believe it. I love you.] 

I smiled: [I love you too.] 

set down my phone. Leaned back in my chair. The smile 

lingered. Life was good. Better than I’d ever expected. 

The LA operation was thriving. Marco and I had merged our 

family interests seamlessly. A true win–win. Both our 

organizations stronger than before. 

We’d bought a house in the Hollywood Hills. Secure. 

Luxurious. More importantly, it was a home. A real home with 

warmth. Not the cold showcase I’d lived in before. 

We’d talked about marriage. About children. About building a family that surpassed anything our fathers had created. 

But we never rushed. We had time. A lifetime to build this 

together. 

Then Camila messaged: [You asked for updates. Someone spotted Irina in Vegas. Working as a cocktail waitress at a bar. 

Tried to use your name to get a casino VIP pass. Denied.] 

I felt nothing. No satisfaction from revenge. No pity. Irina was irrelevant now. A footnote in a chapter I’d closed. 

I replied: [Thank you. No action needed.] 

Camila: [Understood.] 

A knock at the door. My assistant stepped in. Her tone was respectful. “Ms. Bellandi, someone’s here to see you. Says they knew you in New York. Should I show Mrs. Margaret Russo 

in?” 

Margaret Russo. Dante’s mother. We hadn’t spoken since the divorce. Her presence here was unexpected. “Send her in.” 

A woman in her seventies entered. Irish features. Weathered. 

Her eyes held caution and grief she couldn’t hide. 

“Mrs. Russo.” I stood. My tone was neutral. “Your visit is 

unexpected.” 

“Ms. Bellandi.” She corrected gently. A trace of melancholy in 

her voice. “You’re no longer my son’s wife. Call me Margaret.” 

“Margaret. What can I do for you?” 

She sat slowly. Folded her hands in her lap. Her fingers trembled slightly. “I’m here to apologize. For my son. For what he did to you. For all of it.” 

I was surprised. “Margaret, you don’t need to apologize. Your son’s choices aren’t yours.” 

“But I raised him,” her eyes reddened. Tears gathered. 

“I should have taught him better. I failed. I heard about that 

night at the casino. I’m ashamed. And furious. I tried to talk 

sense into him before it was over. Told him he was destroying 

the most precious thing in his life.” 

“Did he listen?” I asked. 

“No.” She wiped her eyes. Her voice cracked. “He kept insisting you’d come back. That you still loved him. That it was all a misunderstanding. He died believing you’d forgive him. 

He was so naive.” 

Silence filled the room. Heavy with sorrow. 

“I’m also here to thank you,” Margaret took a deep breath. Continued. “For making it quick. I know what your family is capable of. They could have made him suffer. But you showed mercy. Even after everything he did, you chose leniency.” 

“He wasn’t worth wasting energy on hate,” I said honestly. “Hate poisons the one who carries it. I didn’t want to be trapped by the past.” 

Margaret nodded. Approval in her eyes. “You’re a good person, Seraphina Bellandi. My son didn’t deserve you. I only hope the 

man you’re with now does.” 

“He does.” My voice was soft. A trace of warmth I didn’t try to 

hide. 

She stood. At the door, she paused. Looked back at me. “Honestly, I always liked you. You were kind to me. Even when you didn’t have to be. Thank you, Seraphina.” 

After Margaret left, I sat in my chair. Turned over our 

conversation. No turmoil. Just a sense of finality. Like dust 

settling after a storm. I packed up and drove home. 

The moment I walked in, I found Marco in the kitchen. Or 

rather, struggling in the kitchen. Flour covered every surface. 

He was cursing at the pasta machine in Italian. 

“Need help?” I leaned against the doorframe. Smiling. 

“Nope. Got this under control.” He was stubborn. Then a piece of dough fell on the floor. 

He scratched his head sheepishly. “Okay. Maybe a little help.” 

I laughed. Rolled up my sleeves. Walked into the chaos with him. 

Flour everywhere. A bottle of wine open. We wrestled with the dough. Played. Fumbled our way through cooking. Finally sat down to a meal that was far from perfect. But absolutely delicious. 

This was what I’d been searching for all along. Not ultimate power. Not status everyone envied. Not grand romance. 

Just this simple warmth. 

Someone who truly knew me. Valued me. Loved me. Someone who’d try his hardest to make pasta even though he couldn’t cook. Someone who stood beside me as an equal. Someone who made me laugh. 

“What are you thinking?” Marco noticed my smile. Asked 

softly. 

“I’m thinking about how far I’ve come this year.” I looked at 

him. Eyes full of tenderness. “My life is completely different from a year ago.” 

“Better?” He raised an eyebrow. 

“So much better.” I raised my glass. “To second chances.” 

“To second chances.” He echoed. Clinked his glass against 

mine. Adoration in his eyes. 

We smiled at each other. The sun set. Los Angeles night slowly 

enveloped the city. A peace I’d never known settled over me. 

Once, Dante Russo tried to destroy me. Instead, he set me free. 

In this moment, I understood. True happiness wasn’t the thrill 

of revenge. It was this. Stable. Warm. Being cherished every 

day. 

I’ve never been this happy before.