The day my boyfriend got back from Paris, I told him, "Dante, let's break up." He just smiled. "Is this because I didn't bring you that bag?" "Yes," I said.

Seven days earlier, Dante Castellano had taken his men to Paris to negotiate a new port shipping route. He'd brought gifts for every capo, even the garage guard—but nothing for me, though I'd asked for that specific handbag two months ago. Then his new assistant, Tiffany, posted a selfie carrying that exact bag: *Best boss ever. Love you forever.* Dante had commented, *It's nothing.*

Dante and I had known each other since we were seven, started dating at eighteen, and truly been in love—this wasn't some arranged contract between families. At twenty-seven, he became head of the Castellano Family and slid a ring on my finger in front of all his capos, calling me the only woman he'd ever recognize as his wife.

Lately, other people had been edging me out. Even now, mid-breakup, he glanced at his phone—Tiffany, sent over from the Marchetti branch, asking him to lunch. "It's just a bag. I'll buy you one next time." "Get a car home."

I didn't try to stop him. I replied to the Paris bridal studio: *I accept. I'm on the flight tomorrow night.* Then I took off my ring and keycard and left them in his desk drawer. That ring meant protection under the Castellano name. Taking it off meant giving all of it up—voluntarily.

Dante, from this moment on, we're done.