The Don Gave My Dream to His Mistress, Then He BrokeChapter 1

My husband stole my flower shop dream and gave it to his mistress to open.

She pointed at my design sketch and bragged:

"My husband drew this for me himself. He said I deserved everything."

The husband she was talking about was mine—Dante Moretti, the most dangerous Don in Chicago.

Three years ago, when I told him I wanted to open a flower shop, all Dante said was, "Don't embarrass me with your little-girl fantasies."

Turns out the flower shop wasn't the embarrassment. I was the one who didn't deserve it.

Later, Dante publicly announced she was his real wife, and forced me—pregnant—to admit I was some deranged nanny, and to apologize to her.

I did it.

Then I signed the divorce papers, terminated the pregnancy, and left Chicago.

Dante thought I was just angry.

He was wrong.

This time, I wasn't coming back.

...

The bell above the flower shop door chimed. Mia hurried forward, beaming. "My husband sent someone to pick up the flowers!"

I followed her gaze—

It was Carlo.

Dante's most trusted man.

The moment Carlo saw me, the color drained from his face.

"Donna..."

Mia noticed nothing. She reached under the counter and lifted out a dark green velvet box.

"Carlo, perfect timing. Can you give this back to Dante for me? He pushed it on me last night, but it's just too expensive. I can't accept it."

Carlo reached for it.

His hand was trembling.

So was mine.

Because I recognized that box.

Inside was a diamond necklace—the one Dante had flown to Geneva last week to bid on at auction.

Our fifth wedding anniversary was only days away. I'd thought it was meant for me. I'd been looking forward to it.

How pathetic.

"He came so late last night, though," Mia pouted. "Said something had held him up."

Last night was my birthday.

I'd waited for Dante all evening. All I got was one text:

"Something's come up at the club. Don't wait up. I'll make it up to you tomorrow."

Turns out the thing that had "held him up"—was me.

On Dante Moretti's schedule, his wife had been filed under "delays."

If I hadn't wandered into this flower shop by chance, how much longer would I have gone on living inside this lie?

I forced myself to stay calm and told myself it was time to leave.

But as I turned, my eyes caught the wall inside the shop—a hand-drawn sketch, framed in warm white.

A vine-covered archway. A rose-lined window. An old piano.

In the bottom right corner, a ginger cat dozing in a flower basket.

My feet froze.

Three years ago, one winter afternoon, I'd curled up on the couch and spent hours drawing the flower shop of my dreams. Then I brought it to Dante.

"Someday, if I get the chance, I want to open a shop just like this."

He'd barely glanced at it.

"You're the Donna of the Moretti family, not some girl with her head in the clouds. Stop wasting your time on this nonsense."

He'd rolled up the sketch and tossed it into a drawer in his study.

Later, the sketch disappeared.

Dante said someone had thrown it out as scrap paper while cleaning up the study.

That evening, he had Carlo send over a bouquet as an apology.

"It's gone. It was just a piece of paper."

I tried to draw it again afterward, but I could never quite recapture the feeling of that first one.

For three years, I'd believed it had really been thrown away.

It hadn't. It had been framed and hung on Mia's wall.

No wonder this place had felt so strangely familiar. Dante had followed my blueprint—stroke by stroke—and built another woman's dream instead.

"Do you like it, ma'am?" Mia's eyes crinkled with delight. "My husband drew it for me himself. Isn't he amazing?"

"Next time, I'm going to ask him to draw my favorite—lilies. Roses are so tacky..."

Her husband. Drawn by his own hand.

Dante had stolen my dream, signed his own name to it, and given it to his other wife.

He'd said a flower shop would make the Morettis a laughingstock.

He'd wanted me quiet. Presentable. Useful.

I held things together at The Velvet Room for him, managed the old guard, cleaned up every mess.

But the moment I spoke a word out of turn, he'd remind me in front of everyone: "Elena, all you need to do is be a good wife."

Turns out, all along, he'd been doing just one thing:

Snuffing out my light—so he could use it to shine on someone else.

The reason he'd crushed me and the gift he'd given her were, quite literally, the same piece of paper.

A cold went through me.

As I stepped out of the shop, Carlo followed. "Donna, I—"

I didn't look at him.

I was only thinking one thing.

What was stolen from me—it's time I took it back.