The Don’s 89-Point Wife Chapter 09
The Marchetti family council met for six hours.
When Adriano left the study, he was no longer Don.
The elders concluded that his long-term abuse of power and favoritism had pushed several of the family’s European businesses into crisis.
The information Isabella had leaked also exposed the family to massive claims from the Colombo family.
Don Salvatore threw the resignation papers in front of him.
“You destroyed the family over one woman. Satisfied?”
Adriano picked them up.
“It was my fault.”
That night, he came to Geneva and asked me to sign the final equity restructuring agreement.
I read the terms.
“You’re giving up ten percent of your own shares?”
“To compensate the original Aurora Line team Isabella fired.”
“The council agreed?”
“They had no reason to refuse.”
I signed and handed the document back.
Adriano didn’t leave.
“The divorce ruling came through.”
“I know.”
“It takes effect tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
His fingers pressed against the edge of the file.
“Is that all you have to say?”
“Pleasure doing business with you.”
The words darkened his expression.
From lovers to business partners.
It was a rule he’d once taught me himself.
Adriano asked quietly, “Does Voss treat you well?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Do you like him?”
“Also none of your business.”
He gave a bitter smile.
“Now I finally understand what it means to have no right to ask.”
I said nothing.
“Elena, if I’d stayed that day, would things be different?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you hate me?”
“Not anymore.”
Those three words turned his eyes red.
Love and hate both carry weight.
Only indifference feels this light.
An assistant knocked and brought in Interpol’s final investigation report.
Besides forging the emails, Isabella had sold Aurora Line’s core route maps to the Colombo family to pay off her father’s gambling debts in Monte Carlo.
Three items on the perfect résumé she’d been so proud of were also fake.
Adriano finished reading and suddenly laughed.
“I gave a liar a perfect score, while I kept thinking you weren’t good enough.”
“So your scores never meant anything.”
I stood and put on my coat.
Tomorrow was the official opening of the Mediterranean branch.
I still had plenty to do.
Adriano followed me to the door.
“Elena.”
I paused.
He looked like he had a thousand things to say.
In the end, he only placed my wedding ring in my palm.
“It’s yours. You decide what happens to it.”
I looked at it for two seconds, then opened my hand.
The ring dropped through the slot of a church donation box beside the door.
A small sign on it read:
Donations from used valuables.
…
On the day the Mediterranean branch officially opened, I led the final round of interviews for simultaneous interpreters.
After a young Italian woman finished her trial interpretation, she asked nervously, “Signora Bellandi, what score did I get?”
I closed my notebook.
“Why does there have to be a score?”
“I’m afraid I’m not good enough.”
“You conveyed the meaning accurately and handled the unexpected issue. Whatever still needs work, keep practicing.”
She still looked nervous.
“So… am I hired?”
I handed her an employee badge.
“Welcome aboard.”
She froze for a few seconds, then took it with a smile.
Julian leaned against the doorway holding a paper bag.
“Signora, the interviewer skipped breakfast. Failed evaluation.”
“How many points off?”
“None.”
He pressed a warm café au lait into my hand, then gave me the paper bag.
Inside was a croissant fresh from the boulangerie on the corner, the smell of butter filling the air.
“Just remember next time.”
I smiled and took a bite.
My life didn’t become extraordinary just because I left someone.
I simply went back to work.
I woke up on my own schedule, ate when I wanted, and boarded flights to the next city.
Adriano never bothered me again.
I heard he sold most of his assets to cover the family’s losses in Europe, then started over in the lowest level of the compliance department.
The allies who once surrounded him gradually disappeared.
Isabella was imprisoned for cross-border commercial crimes.
Her father was also prosecuted for his involvement in illegal gambling in Monte Carlo.
The Florence publisher issued a public apology, and its editor-in-chief was permanently expelled from the industry association.
Sometimes I received unsigned packages.
Inside were missing materials from my mother’s manuscript, or old belongings I’d left at the Marchetti estate.
Adriano had finally learned not to force his regret onto someone else.
…
A year later, I returned to the Geneva interpreting center for an anniversary event.
When it ended, rain was falling outside.
Someone stood on the stone steps, waiting beneath an umbrella.
When I got closer, I saw Adriano.
He was much quieter than before.
“I didn’t check your schedule.”
“Professor Laurent told me.”
“What do you want?”
He handed me a document envelope.
“I transferred the family trust your father left you back into your private account at the original percentage.”
“It was mine to begin with.”
“Yes. It was always yours.”
Then he held out the umbrella.
I didn’t take it.
Julian’s car stopped below the steps.
The window rolled down.
“Elena, ready?”
“Yes.”
I walked past Adriano toward the car.
Behind me, he said softly,
“I’m sorry.”
I stopped but didn’t turn around.
“I heard you.”
Rain tapped against the umbrella.
Adriano stayed where he was.
He didn’t follow.
Once I got into the car, Julian handed me an invitation.
“You’re the keynote speaker at next month’s industry summit in Paris.”
“What’s the topic?”
“How to maintain your sense of self-worth under pressure.”
I looked out at the rain-washed streets of Geneva.
“That’s too broad.”
“Then change it.”
“To what?”
I thought for a moment and wrote one line on the back of the invitation.
You don’t have to be perfect.
Julian read it.
He didn’t judge whether it was good or bad.
He simply closed the car window for me.
Outside, people folded umbrellas and hurried down the street.
Fresh croissants still steamed behind the window of the corner boulangerie.
This time, no one stood at the finish line waiting to judge me.
And I no longer had to keep rewriting my life just to earn one person’s perfect score.