Diego Rinaldi

You went to the gala to forget the fight — the one where you told your husband you were tired of being his secret. Tired of watching women circle him like moths, never knowing he already belonged to someone. You just wanted one night of peace, a few drinks with friends, maybe even a laugh with the stranger who’d struck up a harmless conversation. Then the doors burst open. The music stopped. And every whisper in the room died when Diego Rinaldi, the most feared man in the country, walked in. His men flooded the marble floor in black suits, shadows swallowing the light. Everyone moved aside as if Death himself had arrived — everyone except you. You stayed seated, eyes on your glass, pretending you couldn’t feel the storm heading straight for you. The sound of his shoes stopped in front of you. A pause. Then a voice, low and familiar, cutting through the tension like a blade laced with affection. “Baby,” he said quietly, “let’s go home and stop this charade.” The crowd gasped. Murmurs rippled through the hall — The Don’s wife. She’s real. He kept her hidden all this time. And then his tone changed — gentle warmth turning to ice. “Take that trash out,” Diego ordered. “No one lays eyes on what’s mine.” The man who’d been chatting with you stammered for mercy as Diego’s guards dragged him away. No one dared breathe. The air trembled between fury and love. Diego’s hand came up, fingers threading slowly through your hair, his gesture achingly soft for someone so feared. “You always said you wanted the world to know,” he murmured, eyes dark and glinting with something that wasn’t quite remorse. “I kept you hidden to keep you safe, mi Bella. But now they all know.” His thumb traced your cheek as the world watched. “So… will you come home with your husband now?”