The Rejected Wife Of The Cruel Mafioso

Chapter 01

Tiziano Constanzo

I was only twenty-four years old when my life changed forever.

It was a humid night in Verona, stifling like so many others.

My parents had gone out for a business meeting, an engagement that should have been routine.

I didn’t go with them. My father, with that serious look that always concealed his affection, asked me to stay behind.

“Your time hasn’t come yet, Tiziano,” he said, a proud smile softening his stern expression.

He had always been that way: fiercely protective, as though he carried a constant premonition that something might happen.

As an only child, my father believed I was the most obvious target for anyone who wanted to destroy our family.

I was the heir, the future Don, and he would do the impossible to protect the legacy I would one day carry on my shoulders.

That was the last time I saw my parents. They passed through the gates of our villa, illuminated by the yellow glow of the old streetlamps, and disappeared into the night. That moment should have been just another one in my life, but instead, it became one I would never forget.

The tragic news came only a few hours later. One of the soldiers appeared at the mansion, his face pale. He looked at me, hesitated, and then murmured:

“It’s… it’s your mother and father, signore. They were ambushed by Bellini, one of the capos.”

My mind refused to accept what I had been told. Words like ambush and revenge pierced through my thoughts. When I arrived at the site of the massacre later that same night, the smell of iron and smoke filled my nostrils before my eyes could even register the scene.

Carlo was there, still holding his instruments, his hands trembling. They had called him to save a life that had already slipped away long before. He shook his head when he saw me, the expression on his face telling me everything I needed to know.

My parents’ car was a burning wreck, the metal twisted beyond recognition.

Blood stained the asphalt in deep shades, almost black beneath the glow of the flames.

My mother lay on her side. My father had been standing when it all began.

That much was obvious from the position of his body, facing his attackers as though he were still confronting them.

The gun remained trapped in his rigid hand, evidence of his attempt to fight back.

He knew it was the end, but he fought until his final breath.

In that moment, I felt my soul shatter, consumed by the flames devouring everything around me.

“There’s nothing I can do, Tiziano,” Carlo said, his eyes lowered. His voice sounded distant, as if he were speaking from underwater.

But I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. Tears had no place in the future I knew was waiting for me.

The next morning, Luigi came to me. My uncle had always been a shadow at my father’s side, his loyal consigliere. Now, there was an even heavier weight in the way he carried himself.

“Tiziano, they took everything from you,” he said, anger and pain in his voice. “Now it’s time to show them what it means to be a Constanzo.”

The meeting room was packed that afternoon. The capos were restless, murmuring about who should lead. Many of them didn’t trust me. “Too young,” they said. “Too inexperienced.” Luigi remained by my side the entire time.

“You think he’s too young?” Luigi shouted, slamming his hand down on the table. “He is Giovanni Constanzo’s own blood! He is the only one who can lead us!”

I stood. For the first time, every pair of eyes was fixed on me. Insecurity churned inside me, but I crushed it before it could show.

“My father is no longer here,” I said firmly, “but the Constanzo name still is. And as long as I’m alive, no one, not even hell itself, will erase that name.”

A heavy silence followed before they all rose, one by one, swearing their loyalty.

Enzo, my cousin, was one of the first to kneel that day. He was two years younger than me and had a dangerous ambition in his eyes. Even so, he became my right-hand man. Maybe because he knew he needed me just as much as I needed him to control the more rebellious soldiers.

Carlo, on the other hand, never wanted to become directly involved with the mafia, but he stayed. Not as a soldier, but as my confidant. He tended to the wounded and listened to me when the nights grew too long and the weight became unbearable.

“You’re going to destroy yourself if you don’t have anyone to talk to,” he told me once while cleaning a cut on my shoulder after a negotiation went wrong. He had always been that way: direct, no bullshit, but loyal.

Over the following weeks, we tracked down those responsible for my parents’ deaths. It was Vittorio Bellini, a capo who had decided my father was becoming “too weak” and thought he could take over.

When I finally found him, there was no mercy. He looked at me, perhaps expecting clemency from someone so young. He didn’t know I was no longer that boy.

“You made two mistakes,” I declared, my gun pointed at him. “The first was underestimating the Constanzo name. The second was failing to kill me along with them. A traitor would never take control of the mafia.”

I pulled the trigger, knowing it wouldn’t be the end of our rivalry. After all, just like my father, he had children too, and I would settle the score with them soon enough.

Taking command was never a choice. It was a fate forced upon me, a forge of iron and blood. Every decision I made from that moment on was meant to preserve my family’s legacy and protect those who remained.

But the truth? A part of me died that night along with my parents, the part that made me feel even remotely human.