I Married The Don 3 Years While He Kept His Mistress 7 Years Chapter 02
I sat in the study for a long time, staring at that torn pair of stockings.
That was the first time I really knew—Lorenzo wasn’t just cold. He just didn’t love me.
When I was eighteen, my father brought me to Sicily.
I stood in the hall of the Greco estate, and Grandma Rosalia looked me over for what felt like forever.
Then she turned to Lorenzo and said, “She’s the one.”
I didn’t get what she meant back then.
Later I found out the Greco family needed a wife.
None of the good Sicilian girls from proper families could handle Lorenzo’s coldness.
So Grandma picked me—the daughter of some broke Florentine noble house.
Someone they could replace anytime. An easy choice.
I didn’t mind back then.
He was thirty, the youngest Don in all of Sicily. Handsome. Tall. That straight-backed way he carried himself.
He sat at the head of the long table in his perfect suits.
I only looked at him once, and I was gone.
When I turned twenty-one, Grandma brought up marriage.
Lorenzo sat there drinking whiskey. He didn’t look happy—but he didn’t say no either.
I told myself if I tried hard enough, I could make him love me.
Now I know how stupid that was.
After sitting there forever, I called the old house in Palermo and told the housekeeper I’d be coming back tomorrow.
I spent a long time trying to figure out how to tell Grandma I wanted a divorce.
Lorenzo came home while I was still crying.
Tears soaked into my pillow, and I couldn’t stop them.
The love I’d carried through my whole youth snapped like a dry twig. No sound. No echo.
I knew he never slept in the same room as me. So I pulled the blanket over my head and hid.
“Aurora.”
His voice came low from somewhere above. Before I could even react, he pulled the blanket back.
My whole body went stiff.
But he didn’t do anything else. He just sat down against the headboard.
I heard some rustling, and then he picked up the iPad from the nightstand.
That sound came on—the dirty, unmistakable sound.
I snapped awake, face burning, and reached for it.
“Give it back—”
Lorenzo held it up, and I fell right into his chest.
He looked down at me, almost smiling.
“I forgot,” he said.
“My Donna’s not that eighteen-year-old girl anymore.”
He’d been drinking.
Those gray eyes—usually cold as stone—were soft now. Warm. And dangerous.
I felt the shape of his gun pressing against my ribs, the one he never went anywhere without.
Lorenzo watched the two bodies moving on the screen. His throat moved as he swallowed.
Then his hand slid under the hem of my nightgown.
His palm was warm. Rough with calluses.
He traced slow circles along my waist, back and forth, back and forth.
My body went weak. I tilted my head back to look at him.
And that’s when I caught it—
The smell of roses.
Mixed in with his usual cedarwood scent, faint and drifting, curling right under my nose.
Lorenzo brushed his mouth against my ear, his voice low and rough:
“You’re a grown woman. You have needs too. Let me take care of you tonight.”