99 Stars Folded, I Fled the Mafia Don

"Any single guy who can show me a breakup screenshot gets a Valentine's date with me tonight."

That was Sienna Voss's Instagram post. Sienna — Dante Moretti's so-called "sister," his ride-or-die, his untouchable. The consigliere's daughter who had somehow become his shadow long before I ever entered the picture.

I almost laughed.

Then Dante's name lit up my screen.

Nora. We're done.

Sienna's story updated within the minute. A screenshot of his text to me, overlaid with a kiss emoji: Oops — my boy Dante claimed the prize first.

The comments came fast.

You two are bold lmao. What if Nora actually leaves this time?

Dante replied: It's a bit between family. Relax. She's too in love with me to go anywhere.

Underneath that: Haha Moretti keeps his woman on a short leash fr.

I didn't call him. I didn't cry. I didn't throw my phone against the wall the way I used to.

I reached into the nightstand drawer, pulled out a strip of paper, and folded it — slow, precise — into a small star. Then I dropped it into the glass jar beside my bed.

Dante and I made this deal when things were still good. Every time he chose Sienna over me — every time he let her humiliate me and did nothing — I'd fold a star. When I hit ninety-nine, I'd walk.

Ninety-five.

Four more.

……

Dante Moretti was the eldest son of the Moretti family — one of the five ruling houses that controlled New York's underworld. His father was the Don. Dante was next in line. Everyone in this city either feared his name or owed him something.

But before all of that, he was just a boy from my block.

When I was thirteen and kids at school grabbed at me — pulling my bra strap, calling me names I still can't repeat without my throat closing — Dante was the one who broke a boy's nose in the hallway and told the rest he'd do worse. When my parents threw me out on a night so wet the gutters ran like rivers, he opened his front door, handed me a towel, and didn't ask a single question.

He was everything bright in a life that had gone dark early.

I never told him how I felt. A girl like me didn't reach for a boy like that.

Then the summer after senior year, he showed up at my apartment with red-tipped ears and a jar full of paper stars.

"They say you fold a thousand of these, you get one wish." He couldn't look at me. His jaw was tight, the way it gets when he's nervous. "I wished for you, Nora."

That feeling — the floor dropping out from under me, the whole world narrowing to his face — I still carry it in my chest like a bruise that never healed.

But the boy who folded a thousand stars had become a man who let another woman make me a punchline in front of his whole crew.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and unlocked my phone to cancel our dinner reservation.

His ringtone cut through before I could.

"Babe." Low, easy, careless — the voice he used when he thought I'd already forgiven him. "That was just for the screenshot. Sienna dared me. I'll be home tomorrow, I'll make it up to you."

"Okay."

A soft laugh on his end. "Don't tell me you're jealous again. Sienna's family. She grew up in the organization — her dad's been my father's right hand since before we were born. I look out for her. That's it."

"I know. Go."

Silence. Then his voice dropped — not soft. Cold.

"What's with the attitude, Nora?"

I said nothing.

He hung up.

The restaurant couldn't refund the reservation, so I went alone.

The rooftop lounge sat sixty stories above Midtown. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, Manhattan glittered — the bridges strung with gold, the Hudson black beneath them.

For ten minutes, I almost felt like a person again.

Then that voice — loud, brash, unmistakable — sliced through the room.

"Look at you, Moretti. Treating your girl to a place like this? I'm flattered."

"Shut your mouth and say thank you."

Sienna punched his arm. He caught her around the shoulders and pulled her in, laughing — actually laughing — as they slid into a booth diagonal from mine.

My hand tightened around the stem of my wineglass.

Dante was never like that with me. Around me he was measured, controlled — the heir performing composure. With Sienna, he was loose. Real. The version of himself he actually wanted to be.

"So you really dumped Nora?"

He paused. "Yeah."

"Good." Sienna leaned back, swirling her drink. "You know how she made lead strategist in three years? No woman climbs that fast clean."

"Nora's always been smart."

"Baby, you're too trusting. I saw her out with her boss last month — that old man had his hand halfway up her thigh." She lowered her voice, but not enough. "And you told me yourself — boys used to grope her in middle school. Called her all kinds of names. Maybe she's been letting men touch her since she was a kid."

The room tilted.

My ears rang — a high, thin sound, like a glass about to shatter.

The worst thing that ever happened to me. The thing I whispered to Dante in the dark, shaking so hard I couldn't breathe. And he'd handed it to this woman like loose change.

I don't remember standing. I don't remember reaching for the bowl.

But Sienna's face was suddenly dripping with lobster bisque, and the restaurant had gone dead silent.

She shrieked. Dante was on his feet instantly — napkin in hand, dabbing at her cheeks, tilting her chin up to check her skin. The tenderness in his fingers made my stomach turn.

He looked at me. His eyes were black.

"Apologize. Now."

My nails bit into my palms until I felt skin break. "She just told a restaurant full of people I slept my way to the top. You gave her my worst memory and she turned it into a joke. And you want me to apologize?"

Dante didn't blink.

He picked up my bowl of seafood porridge and poured it over my head.

The heat hit my scalp first — then my neck, my collarbone. My skin screamed. But it didn't hurt as much as watching him wrap his arm around Sienna's waist and walk out without looking back.

She glanced over her shoulder once. Smiled.

I stood there — dripping, scalded, surrounded by stares — until a server quietly handed me a towel.

No drivers available. Valentine's night.

I walked home. An hour, maybe more. By the time I locked the door, my feet were raw, my dress was ruined, and the apartment was dark.

I opened Instagram.

Sienna's latest post: a photo of Dante kneeling on the floor, cradling her bare foot in both hands, clipping her toenails. His expression was focused. Gentle. The caption read: Punishment for the soup incident — foot rub from the heir himself. Justice served.

Dante had a thing about cleanliness. He once shoved my hand away because I used the wrong fork to serve him. He flinched if I touched his face without washing my hands first.

And there he was — holding another woman's feet like something precious.

I put the phone down. Showered until the water ran cold. Bandaged my blisters.

Then I sat on the edge of the bed, pulled a strip of paper from the drawer, and folded it into a star.

I held it for a long time before I dropped it in the jar.

Ninety-six.