The Godmother's Reckoning: Seven Years of Lies, One Night of Judgment

I am the wife of New York's youngest godfather among the Five Families.

Seven years of marriage. I stood by him through assassination attempts and bloody turf wars. I thought I was his donna.

Because every night he held me and said he didn't want children—only wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. I believed him.

On our anniversary, I stood outside his therapist's office and saw another family through the window.

A six-year-old boy rode on his shoulders, calling him "Daddy." The walls were covered with photographs. I wasn't in a single one.

That night, I opened his safe. The combination was our anniversary—also the boy's birthday.

Inside was a prescription with my name on it: "Long-term use suppresses ovulation. Undetectable in routine examinations."

Seven years. The milk he brought me every night was poison designed to ensure I could never have children.

He kept his illegitimate son while systematically destroying my chance to ever become a mother.

That's when I understood. I wasn't his donna. I was a caged bird—a pawn he could manipulate at will.

So I started to wait.

For his most glittering charity gala. To watch him witness his empire collapse with his own eyes.

……

My husband, Vincenzo Rossi, is the youngest godfather among New York's Five Families. In everyone's eyes, we were the perfect union of power and love, destined to rule this city's underworld together. For seven years, I believed it without question.

Until today—our seventh anniversary—when I discovered I'd become a joke.

That morning, Vincenzo took me like he was staking his claim. Again and again, pushing me to my limits.

"Harder."

I was completely lost beneath him, my nails digging deep into the muscles of his shoulders. His body gleamed golden in the early light, each thrust deliberate and possessive.

"Just like that..."

My voice wavered between moans and pleas.

The air was thick with desire, sweat, and the scent of his cologne mixed with something primal. The heat of passion burned across my skin, every kiss another mark of his territory.

This was a godfather's power. Even in bed, he controlled everything.

He kissed me hard—harder than ever before. When it was over, I curled against him, my fingers tracing the scars on his chest—reminders of years spent in the Mafia.

He leaned down, his breath hot against my ear.

"Happy seventh anniversary, baby," he whispered, his voice low and rough.

"Mmm..." I murmured, exhausted.

His fingers traced my cheek, his palm cradling the back of my head.

"I'll handle a few things and be back soon," he said against my ear. "You know I'd rather keep you locked in this bed all day."

His eyes burned with heat and possession. The small disappointment I'd felt about our plans being changed melted away completely.

"Don't be late," I pleaded.

"I won't, baby." He kissed my lips one last time.

But he didn't come back.

At noon, I went to his office hoping to find him. His second-in-command, Luigi, looked visibly flustered. "Mrs. Rossi, the Don... he left about two hours ago."

My smile froze on my face.

I pulled out my phone and sent a message, clinging to one last shred of hope: "Are you done with your meeting? I'm already at Antonio's."

His reply came just as quickly as always: "Still in negotiations, baby. I wish I could fly to you right now, but the family needs me."

A sharp pain tore through my chest. If I hadn't been standing in that empty office, I might have believed every word.

Lies.

In seven years, I never thought Vincenzo would lie to me.

I didn't go home. Instead, I called an information broker, skipping any pleasantries: "Locate Vincenzo Rossi's car. Now."

Two seconds of silence. "Upper East Side. Sterling Psychology and Wellness Center. It's been there for a while."

I pulled up outside the white building. Vincenzo's black Mercedes was parked across the street. My heart nearly stopped.

Camilla Sterling.

The therapist my parents had introduced after Vincenzo took over the family. Back then, the stress kept him awake night after night. My parents said she was the best—that she'd help him.

He recovered quickly. I'd always been grateful, sending her gifts every holiday. I even considered her a savior.

A cold, detached female doctor. How could she possibly have anything to do with my husband?

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I saw everything clearly.

Vincenzo crouched on the soft carpet of her office, a dark-haired little boy beside him holding up a finished Lego piece. The child was about six, with the same dark curls as Vincenzo, his features practically copied from my husband's childhood photographs.

"Higher, Daddy!" the boy squealed with excitement.

Daddy.

The word hit my eardrums like a physical blow, spinning my entire world.

Camilla walked over with fruit and casually brought a mango slice to Vincenzo's lips. Then she bent down and straightened the boy's collar.

"Liam, be careful not to get your clothes dirty. You have a birthday party later."

His birthday. The same day as our anniversary.

My eyes moved to the wall. It was covered with framed photographs—in front of Cinderella's castle, beside a Christmas tree piled with gifts, picnicking in Central Park. Each one told the story of a complete family.

A family I'd been completely erased from.

Then came something worse.

"Will Gianna really not find out?" Camilla's voice drifted through the glass.

Vincenzo turned and kissed her lips casually, then laughed—a sound cold as ice.

"Her? She's so in love with me, she believes everything I say. Never asks questions."

My blood turned to ice in my veins.

"I told her we don't want children, and she actually believed it. Even thought I was being considerate." His tone was so careless it felt like I was hearing a stranger. "When the time is right, I'll tell her the family elders are pressuring me for an heir, then convince her to 'adopt' Liam. It'll all fall into place."

The world went silent.

Seven years. Seven years I was nothing but a convenient cover—a stepping stone paving the way for his real love and their illegitimate son.

My phone lit up. A new message from Vincenzo: "The negotiations just hit a critical stage. I'll probably be here all night, baby. Don't wait up. I'll make it up to you all day tomorrow."

A kiss emoji at the end.

What a perfect performance.

I could feel something inside me crumbling rapidly, but something else—sharper, colder, more resolute—breaking through the surface.

If he'd chosen to treat me like a fool he could toy with at will, then fine. I'd play along to the end.

But from now on, I'd be writing the script.

I opened my phone's photo album—our grand wedding, vows in the cathedral, his embrace under the Tuscan sun. I swiped through, one image after another.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

When the last photo disappeared, I started the car and drove back to the home built on lies.

I would keep playing the naive wife who knew nothing. But something had changed forever.

Because now I understood: from this moment on, every smile would be an act of carefully calculated revenge.