A Proper Donna Takes Out the Trash
While Adrian was away negotiating an arms deal with the Russians, Veronica tampered with my haute couture gown—she knew I had prepared it for the family's charity gala, where I had to be flawless.
On the red carpet, in front of a sea of cameras and the city's elite, the seams of my gown tore apart in a moment of utter humiliation.
But Veronica didn't care. She pulled me into a lounge and sneered, "You're the Falcone Principessa, aren't you? So pampered. Why don't you just be a good little trophy wife and stay in your lane? Leave the real work—the blood and bullets—to me and Adrian."
I lost my temper and slapped her hard across the face.
The next second, Adrian appeared, pulling Veronica into his arms and shielding her.
He glared at me, his voice laced with reproach. "You're the Donna. Is this how you act? She's defenseless, and you attack her? Veronica didn't mean any harm. Why must you make everything so difficult?"
Veronica pressed herself against him, her eyes wide and shimmering with tears. "Donna, I know I'm clumsy. You aren't really going to send me away over something so small, are you?"
That night, he didn't return to our penthouse on Central Park West.
I sat on the cold silk sheets until dawn, a hollow ache where my heart used to be.
As I was packing away his shirts, I saw the tattoo on his back shoulder. The family falcon, once a symbol of our wedding vows, now had its wings subtly twisted into the letter "V." The betrayal was etched into his very skin.
Numb with heartbreak, I picked up the encrypted phone and called my father, the Don of the Falcone family.