The Mafia King's Regret: She Moved On

For four years, I was the invisible baker's daughter who memorized Dante Vitiello’s routine. I baked stomach-friendly meals for the Underboss of New York, ensuring his ulcer didn't kill him, all while loving him from the shadows.

But when I collapsed from exhaustion in his gym, he didn't help me. He looked at me with pure revulsion and asked his guard:

"Is she dead? Call pest control."

To him, I wasn't a girl; I was a stain that smelled of "grease and desperation."

When the Capo’s daughter framed me for stealing family secrets, Dante knew the truth. Yet, he stood silent.