After I Left，My Mafia Husband's Regret

I took a deep breath, trying to steady the storm inside me. My hands trembled slightly as I placed the call. The words had been simmering in my chest for weeks, and now, finally, they poured out.

Consigliere, I want out of the alliance with Dante Russo. The marriage, the name, everything. I want to erase myself completely from their lives.

"Bianca, are you certain about this? I urge you to consider the implications carefully. You are the rightful blood heir to the Benedetti Family. Walking away from that means walking away from territory, from protections, from standing at the table that is yours by birth."

But I had already made my decision. Years of marriage had shown me the truth: the silent coldness, the endless betrayals, the way his eyes always sought her. Adriana. The woman who had been raised in my place after a nurse's life-altering mistake at birth.

Then came the accident, just a month ago. Adriana suffered injuries. I lost our baby.

And instead of offering comfort, Dante blamed me. Worse, I overheard his plan:

"I'm going to spike her drink at the next fundraiser gala. Stage it so she wakes up with another man. Everyone will assume she broke faith. Then I'll have grounds to dissolve the marriage. Everyone, the Benedettis, the Russos, the whole Commission, will side with me, and I'll walk away clean finally free to be with Adriana."

That was the moment I woke fully to reality. No more pretending. No more waiting for a love that had never existed.

"I've made up my mind," I told the consigliere, voice steady, eyes firm. "He won't stop me."

Because I knew, deep down, Dante had never loved me.

Days later, I carefully placed the dissolution papers into an envelope and slipped in my wedding ring. The gold band clinked once against the heavy paper, and the sound was small and final in the quiet of the room.

And for the first time in years, I was free.

Dante had stopped deserving me a long time ago. Still, deciding to end things hadn't been easy. Not until the accident. Not until I lost our baby.

It had happened two weeks earlier. I was driving, Adriana, my adopted sister, riding shotgun. I'd had a single glass of wine, not nearly enough to feel drunk, but I didn't want to drive that day. Adriana insisted, and I relented. Then it all fell apart. A car slammed into us. Too fast. Too sudden. No chance to react.

When I woke in the clinic, the doctors told me two things:

One, Adriana had a fractured leg and a broken arm, but she would recover.

Two, I had lost the baby. My baby. The heartbeat I had clung to, the one I thought would save our marriage.

Instead of comfort or support, there was only blame. I knew it wasn't my fault, it was the other car, but because Adriana mentioned the wine, everyone decided it was my negligence. The Benedetti house closed ranks around her, and I felt the silence tighten like a fist.

"You should have let Adriana drive," Dante had snarled beside my bed, eyes blazing. Two of his soldiers stood by the door, faces blank, listening to everything. "She had an important sit-down with the Capos. And now? Look at her. You've ruined everything. All you do is sit in that estate and do nothing, and now this? You're useless!"

I blinked at him, the sterile lights flickering, and wondered how the man who had once held my hand so gently could crush it now. Yet this wasn't the first betrayal. It was only the loudest.

I had grown up thinking love meant giving endlessly, bending until it hurt, sacrificing everything. I believed that if I gave enough, love would come back to me.

Adriana and I were born the same day, in the same hospital, just minutes apart. A power outage, a terrified nurse, and a tragic mistake: our identities swapped. One nurse carried the guilt for decades without ever correcting it.

Adriana went home with the Benedettis, an old-money dynasty whose name opened doors from Brooklyn to Palermo, whose legitimate fronts hid laundering channels and tribute routes spanning the Eastern Seaboard. I, Bianca, the real Benedetti blood heir, was sent to a working-class couple on the outskirts, to a quiet, humble life full of hard work and love.

I never knew the truth until years later. The dying nurse finally confessed. Blood tests, legal documents, undeniable confirmation: I was the real Benedetti daughter. Adriana wasn't.

But by then, it was too late. Adriana had been raised as the golden child, the public darling, trained for the role of a mob princess, groomed in etiquette, loyalty rituals, and the quiet politics of who sits where at Sunday dinner. She fit seamlessly into their world.

The Benedettis welcomed me, yes, but not as a daughter. As a charity case, a correction of a mistake. Adriana remained the daughter they celebrated, while I was merely tolerated. Even Dante had chosen her.

At first, I tried convincing myself it was just admiration, old ties, the history they shared. Then, a few days after the clinic, I overheard him behind the garden wall during a church fundraiser at the Russo estate.

"I should have married Adriana. Marrying Bianca was a mistake. She's weak, ordinary lacks spark. Adriana would have made sense. A real alliance. A power match," he whispered.

My hand flew to my mouth, hidden behind the hedge, frozen.

Then he continued.

"I'm thinking of spiking her drink at the next gala. Make it look like she broke faith. Then I can dissolve the marriage. Everyone would side with me, even the Benedettis. And I could finally be with Adriana."

My stomach twisted. He wanted me gone. That was the breaking point, the moment something inside me snapped, replaced by something harder, colder.

It was then I called Gia. The phone barely rang twice before she picked up.

"Gia" I murmured, voice trembling. "I need you. My dissolution it's final in five days. Can you pick me up then?"

There was a pause, then faint shuffling. "Wait. What? You're breaking the alliance?" Her voice cracked with shock. "Bianca finally! You've finally seen reason. I told you. You didn't deserve that piece of garbage."

A bitter laugh escaped me. "Yeah I didn't."

I rubbed at the crescent of dried paint beneath my thumbnail, grounding myself, pulling back from the edge. Then I shook myself back to the present when Dante's voice called from the kitchen.

"Babe! I made your favorite!"

I wiped my eyes and stood, walking toward the smell of food. The act. The performance. The perfect husband before the next betrayal.

In the kitchen, he waited by the stove, smiling, an apron Adriana had given him draped over his chest. His black signet ring caught the light as he set down a wooden spoon.

"Come on, sit." He kissed my cheek as if nothing had happened. Like we hadn't lost our child. Like I wasn't in pain. "We can have another one," he said casually.

I stared at the plate, stomach twisting. Mushroom risotto. Adriana's favorite. Not mine. My favorite had always been steak. He knew, or maybe he didn't. Because he never really noticed me. Never truly saw me. I had been nothing more than convenient.

Five days. That's all that remained before I could finally walk away and never look back.

I lit the candle, letting the stillness of the room settle around me. Its flame burned small and steady, a soft white glow, so composed compared to my shaking hands as I placed it beside the tiny blue socks we had bought just a month ago. Soft cotton, the color of the sky, picked out by Dante himself. He had said he wanted our son to grow up brave.

I sank to my knees before the little altar I had made for our baby, pressing my eyes shut.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I should have protected you I should have seen them for what they really are. I'm sorry you never got to meet this world maybe it's a mercy in the end."

I stayed there, motionless, letting grief wash over me, minutes or maybe hours slipping by without notice. When I finally rose, the resolve was there. It was time to take the next step. Time to move forward.

I started with the nursery. Every folded onesie, pacifier, and soft animal blanket, the fragments of dreams I thought we'd build, went into boxes. Alongside them went Dante's gifts: anniversary necklaces, journals, even the framed photo from our honeymoon on the Amalfi Coast, the one where he whispered, "You're my everything."

Lies. All of it.

I carried the boxes outside to the stone fire pit behind the estate, lit a match, and watched flames devour our past. Ash spiraled into the wind like vanishing ghosts. The compound walls rose dark beyond the garden, and a soldier on perimeter duty glanced my way from the gatehouse but said nothing. No one questioned the Don's wife when she burned things. As the heat kissed my face, my mind wandered back to the first time I met Dante, five years ago, the night I learned I was the rightful blood heir to the Benedetti Family. My world had shattered in a single breath. Yet there he was: calm, warm, persuasive. My family called it fate. He was the eldest son of the Russo syndicate, a perfect match for the alliance.

And me? Foolish, hopelessly in love at first sight. He made me feel seen.

But love from a man like Dante came with a price: conditions, expectations, manipulation, and, ultimately, betrayal.

When the fire had died to glowing embers, I returned inside to clean, still performing the role of a perfect wife. I opened his closet to arrange his things, then something caught my eye: a box hidden behind his jackets. Curious, I pulled it out. It was heavier than I expected.

Inside, my heart froze.

A photo album. Prenup photos. Dante. And Adriana.

Each glossy image was a knife twisting in my chest. Adriana in a white gown. Dante in a black tuxedo. She smiled at him like she had his heart, and he held her as if he had already abandoned me. The dates were recent, just days before the accident. My mouth went dry. My legs wobbled. But I didn't scream. Didn't cry. I closed the box and carried it outside. I had already mourned enough.

Returning inside, the smell of garlic and butter hit me. Adriana stood at the stove, flipping shrimp like she belonged there. My parents, Viola and Carlo, sat at the dining table. Dante arranged wine glasses, smiling like everything was perfect.

I froze at the doorway.

Adriana turned and beamed. "Just in time. I made shrimp pasta. One of Dante's favorites and Mamma's too."

We all sat. Steam rose from the plate in front of me, parsley scattered atop it. I stared.

"What now?" my mother snapped, impatient. "You're not eating?"

"I I'm not hungry," I murmured.

She waved a hand, frustrated. "Always difficult. Can't you at least appreciate your sister's effort?" Beneath the table, I could feel her displeasure radiating the same way it did during sit-downs when someone spoke out of turn. Viola Benedetti did not tolerate disruption to the appearance of unity, not at her table.

Adriana tilted her head gently. The tip of her tongue touched the edge of her canine for just a heartbeat. "It's fine. She doesn't have to eat if she doesn't want to."

"She should," Dante interjected smoothly. "Adriana went through the trouble. Don't be rude, Bianca. It's not always about you."

Not always about me?

I bit my lip, sharp. They didn't know, or maybe they did and chose to forget. I was allergic to shrimp. Hospitalized once at the neutral-ground clinic on Mulberry, a full-blown anaphylactic shock. Yet no one remembered. No one asked. Not Dante. Not my mother. No one cared, because Adriana had made it. And because I was expected to comply. Omert did not only mean silence about Family business. In this house, it meant silence about everything.

"Fine," I said, swallowing my pride along with a bite of pasta.

It only took seconds.

My throat tightened as if wrapped in iron, my chest pressed in from all sides. I struggled for air, grasping the edge of the table, fingers trembling, lungs gasping.

"What now?" Viola snapped, her voice sharp and impatient. "The food isn't good enough for you?"

"She's doing this on purpose," Dante said smoothly, swirling his wine. His black signet ring caught the candlelight as his thumb turned it once. "If you didn't like it, Bianca, you could've just said so."

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

The room began to blur, shadows and spots spinning at the corners of my vision. Breathing became impossible. I was drowning in the very air around me. Somewhere far away, the clink of silverware continued, undisturbed, as if nothing at that table had changed at all.

Then darkness claimed me.

The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic was the first thing that hit me when I opened my eyes in the clinic room.

Then came the steady beep. Soft, unyielding, a reminder that I was still breathing.

I blinked at the ceiling, trying to piece together how I had ended up here, until the bitter taste of shrimp returned to my mouth and memory crashed over me: the dinner table, their laughter, my body betraying me.

I let out a slow, shaky breath and turned toward the window. Sunlight streamed in, warm and golden. The blinds were the cheap kind, the sort they kept in the neutral-ground clinics where no one asks your last name and the front desk knows better than to write one down.

I was utterly alone.

Ignoring the slight tug of the IV in my hand, I pushed myself upright and reached for my phone. The screen lit up with notifications. None from Dante. None from Adriana. None from my parents.

I opened social media. There it was.

A story from Adriana's feed, now gone, but etched in my mind. The image of them at a private showing in some invitation-only auction house: laughing, glowing, perfectly staged. My parents beside them. Dante's hand casually resting on her lower back.

The caption: "Celebrating life with those who matter."

A jagged laugh escaped me. So that was it. While I nearly died, they sipped champagne beneath chandeliers in a room where men laundered fortunes through gilt frames. Well, perhaps it was partly my fault for eating the shrimp. I had hoped this incident might finally make them notice me. I was wrong. I would never belong, not really, even as the true daughter. The true blood heir of the Benedetti house, and still not worth a single phone call.

I dropped my phone onto the bed. No flowers. No cards. No fruit basket.

When I asked the nurse if anyone had come by, she shook her head, apologetic. "No visitors so far, ma'am."

Even now, after all the revelations about the switched lives, the heartbreak, the truth, they still loved Adriana more. Always. She wore the Benedetti name like it had always been hers, and maybe that was the only thing that mattered to them. Not blood. Not birthright. The performance of it.

And me? I had given them everything: my love, my body, my baby, my name, my future. And in return? Disregard. Disrespect. Contempt.

But I was done.

That afternoon, a message from my lawyer arrived:

Lawyer: Divorce finalized. Official documents on the way.

The word sat wrong in my mouth. Divorce. As if what Dante and I had was a marriage and not a political arrangement sealed over a handshake between bosses. The dissolution of an alliance. Nothing more.

Then Gia's message came, as ever my lifeline:

Gia: Everything's ready. Disappear? Or marry a stranger and make your own headlines? I can arrange either.

Me: Anything. Anyone. Just get me out of here.

I signed my discharge forms and walked out of the clinic with nothing but my coat and silence. The air outside hit harder than expected, a reminder: there was nothing left for me here. No warmth. No family. No love.

Back at the estate, I gathered a few things before vanishing for good. No one noticed. The house buzzed with preparations for the Benedetti annual gala, the kind of church fundraiser and society front that kept the Family's name in the right columns and the wrong questions out of polite conversation. Guests. Lights. Champagne. Adriana, in her element, orchestrating florists and string quartets as though she ruled it all. And in this house, she did.

She turned, offering me a smile that never reached her eyes. "Oh, you're back. Bianca... I didn't mean for you to get sick."

My mother glanced up from her planner. "She just wants attention. And if she knew she was allergic, why eat it? Useless bitch."

I lowered my gaze. Pain flared, but I swallowed it, refusing to let it consume me. Viola Benedetti could cut deeper than any soldier with a blade, and she never even raised her voice. She just smoothed the edge of her linen napkin flat with the heel of her palm and moved on, as if I were a stain she'd already decided to ignore.

Then my mother threw a clipboard at me. "Since you're here, help finish the arrangements. And if anything goes wrong, it's on you."

Of course. Always me.

I worked through the night. Every seating chart, every floral centerpiece, every call to caterers who didn't ask questions and vendors who invoiced through shell accounts. I ate little. Slept less. But I endured. Because I had a plan. Just a few more days.

During a brief pause, I passed the hall and caught Dante and Adriana whispering near the grand piano. His hand brushed her cheek. She giggled. They leaned too close.

When I walked by, he spun his black signet ring once with his thumb and offered that same old line:

"She's just my friend, Bianca. Always has been. Even before you came along, it was supposed to be us."

His words made it clear: I was the intruder. The mistake. The wrong name written into a blood pact that should have bound him to her from the start.

I said nothing.

Later, in the guest room, exhaustion finally pulled at me, but sleep refused to come. Faint sounds drifted from down the hall. Soft moans, muffled gasps. Adriana's room. The headboard creaked. Then I recognized Dante's voice, low, intimate, familiar.

I crept toward the hallway and froze outside her half-open door.

Through the narrow gap, I saw them: bodies tangled, slick with sweat, sheets wrapped around them like silk. Her laugh. His groan.

Without a sound, I turned and walked back to my room, heart heavy, stomach twisting. I pressed my thumbnail against the crescent of dried paint beneath it until the small pain was the only thing I could feel.

It was the last day before the gala. One more day of pretending. One more day of smiling through emptiness.

I wrapped a scarf around my hair, pulled on my coat, and made my way to the main hall to double-check the placement cards. The estate was quiet at that hour, the soldiers on morning rotation still finishing coffee in the gatehouse, the hallway smelling faintly of floor polish and cold stone. That's when the door creaked open behind me.

Adriana. Her smile was differenttoo sharp, too polished, like glass reflecting light. No audience this time. No parents. No Dante. Just us. And when it was just us, Adriana's sweetness disappeared entirely.

She stepped inside as if the room belonged to her. "Up early, huh?" she said, voice dripping with mock cheer. "Still playing the perfect little worker bee? How admirable of you."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to. I knew who she was when no one was watching.

It wasn't new. I remembered her breaking my favorite porcelain doll and screaming that I had pushed her into the cabinet. I got grounded; she got a new dress. I remembered sneaking cookies because of her and taking the blame when we were caught while she walked away praised for her honesty.

Even as we grew older, she whispered cruel truths disguised as jokes:

"Dante only married you for the alliance."

"You'll always be second-best, Bianca. Doesn't matter whose blood runs in your veins."

It never ended. No one ever believed me when I spoke up. I was always the liar. The ungrateful one. The burden.

Maybe leaving the couple who had raised me with carethe ones who kissed my bruises and tucked me inwas a mistake. But they were gone now.

I had hoped coming to my real family would mean belonging somewhere. I was wrong.

Adriana crossed her arms, leaning against the doorway. "I need you to do something," she said, crisp and commanding. "Don't go to the gala tomorrow."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," she said, stepping closer and pulling an envelope from her coat. "Ticket's in here. One-way. To a quiet place outside the city. A whole week. You like peace, don't you?"

She placed the envelope on my dresser like it was an offering. "You don't need to ruin the gala. Stay away from Dante while you're at it. You're not right for him, Bianca. Never were."

There it was. Her true voice. Cold. Entitled. Cruel.

The tip of her tongue touched the edge of her canine, just briefly, before she added softly: "I know what you saw. It doesn't matter. You're still married for now. But it's only a matter of time."

I studied her, really studied her, and for the first time, I didn't flinch. I didn't bend.

"You don't need to worry," I said, calm and steady. "After tomorrow, you'll never have to see me again."

Her eyes flickered. "Good."

I walked out without another word.

That night, I sank into a long bath, lavender steam fogging the mirror, my mind, my thoughts. Exhaustion wasn't from the work or preparationsit was from pretending, from silencing myself. Somewhere below the window, I could hear the low murmur of the evening crew changing shifts at the compound gate, boots on gravel, a radio crackling once and going quiet.

When I stepped out, robe around me, hair towel-dried, the door slammed open.

My mother appeared, fury in every motion. She hurled something at mea gown. Beaded, emerald green.

"What the hell is this?" she snapped. Then she tossed a delicate velvet box, which hit the floor and spilled its contents: a broken gold chain, emerald pendant shattered.

I stared. "Is is this yours?"

She crossed her arms. "Adriana said she saw you near my room. Did you do this?"

"I I didn't," I whispered, still frozen on the broken emerald.

"Liar," she hissed. "Adriana saw you. You've always envied what isn't yours. And now you destroy it?"

"I didn't" My voice caught. "I swear, I didn't touch it."

That was all it took.

A sharp crack echoed through the room. My head jerked.

She had slapped me. Hard.

The sting spread across my cheek, ears ringingnot from the pain, but from her words.

"I should've left you with the peasants who raised you!" she shrieked. "You think you're one of us? You never will be. I regret claiming you as my daughter. Adriana is my only child."

I froze, her words settling like stone in my chest. The Benedetti name, the bloodline everyone in this world killed and married and bled to protect. And she had just told me I was outside of it. In this house, that wasn't rejection. It was exile.

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

I stood there, trembling, the box still in my hands, heartbeat thudding like a drum.

A soft knock came.

Adriana stepped inside. "Are you okay?" she asked, reaching for me.

I recoiled, instinctively, but she drew closer, her false warmth brushing against my arm.

"You know," she whispered, her voice coated in sisterly sweetness, "maybe she's right. No one really loves you. You're just extra."

Her words cut deeper than any slap.

Something inside me broke.

I shoved her.

My hands shoved Adriana, and for a brief second, she teetered back, eyes wide with shock. I hadn't meant to push her that farit wasn't even a strong shovebut true to form, she made it a performance.

"You little!" she hissed, lunging at me, nails aiming for my hair.

Before I could react, she had grabbed a fistful, yanking my head violently to the side. Pain lanced across my scalp as I struggled, clutching her wrist, trying to free myself.

"Enough!" I shouted, shoving her back again.

She scratched me. Sharp, burning lines marked my cheek and neck. We stumbled backward, grappling like feral children.

"What the hell is happening here?" Dante's voice boomed as he stormed in.

Adriana melted into tears instantly. "She hit me! Look what she did!" she whimpered, holding up a faint red line on her arm.

"She attacked me first!" I shouted, pointing at my torn shirt, messy hair, and the small trickle of blood on my cheek.

Dante didn't hesitate.

"Bianca, what is wrong with you? Are you insane?"

"She started it!" I yelled, desperation in my voice. "She provoked me! She said"

"Shut up," he snapped, the word cutting like a whip. "God, you're pathetic. Always the problem."

I froze as Adriana sniffled behind him, clutching her staged injuries. The tip of her tongue touched the edge of her canine, and through my blurred vision I caught the ghost of satisfaction cross her face before it crumpled back into tears.

Dante's eyes locked onto mine, colder than I had ever seen. "You're nothing compared to Adriana. Elegant, composed. And you? Just a bitter, messy shadow."

The room fell into a heavy silence. The kind that follows betrayalweighty, permanent. He didn't even check on me. Somewhere beyond the study door a soldier shifted his weight, leather creaking, and then went still, the way men in this house always went still when the heir lost his temper.

I am his wife. And none of it mattered anymore.

That night, I cried myself to sleep. The scratch on my cheek throbbed, but the ache in my chest was far worse.

The next morning, Dante asked me to accompany him shopping for the gala. I agreedfor the last time.

At the boutique on Via Monte Napoleone, he draped a hand lightly on my lower back, as he always did in public, as if to show care. As if he hadn't spent the previous night in someone else's arms. The Russo driver waited at the curb with the engine running; the second soldier held the door. To anyone passing, we were a young couple from a respected Family, blessed and untouchable.

He browsed suits and luxury gifts while I followed behind, silent, detached. My phone buzzed. Gia.

"Who's that?" Dante asked suddenly, narrowing his eyes as he reached for my phone.

I pulled it back, holding it close. "Do you really need to read my private messages?" I asked, arching a brow.

His jaw tightened, but he stepped back. "Enough with the phone. We're heading home soon."

Once back at the estate, he excused himself, claiming a sit-down with one of the Capos.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, I moved quickly. Into the study. The room still smelled faintly of cigar smoke and old leather, the scent of men making decisions about other people's lives. I opened the hidden safe behind the bookshelf and retrieved the clinic report from my miscarriagethe one no one mourned with me.

I slid it into an envelope, added the signed dissolution papers, and finally, our wedding ring.

Sealing it carefully, I called a private courier to deliver it to Dante during the gala.

Then, I took one last walk through the estate. Wiping down every surface I touched. Deleting my fingerprint from the biometric lock. Leaving the keys neatly on the dining table. Every trace of me erased.

The house was enormous and quiet, the way houses owned by dangerous men always aretoo many rooms, too few honest words ever spoken inside them. I passed the hallway where the Russo family crest hung in a gilded frame, the motto beneath it in Latin that Dante once translated for me on our wedding night, proud and a little drunk: Loyalty unto death.

I rubbed at the crescent of dried paint beneath my thumbnail and kept walking.

The charity gala glittered with gold and crystal, the kind of front-facing society event where every Family worth mentioning sent their best faces. Dante Russo was already inside the venue with Adriana, talking business with silent partners and protected backers beneath the chandeliers.

By the time the clock struck ten, Bianca hadn't shown. Dante started to feel uneasy. He asked a server if they'd seen her arrive. The answer was no. He asked a soldier posted at the door, a valet, the event coordinator. All shook their heads.

That was impossible. He called again. No answer. The ringing went straight to voicemail.

A sinking feeling hit the pit of his stomach. This wasn't like Bianca. She always responded. Was she still mad?

Then, just as he was about to call her again, Nereo Gallo approached him. The old steward's face was unreadable, but his eyes lowered for one measured beat before rising to meet Dante's directly. "Sir," he said, offering a long, rectangular box wrapped in ivory paper. "This was delivered just now. For you."

Dante raised an eyebrow and took it.

The paper came off slowly, his fingers twitching. Inside the box were two things. A folded stack of official documents. And her wedding ring.

He pulled out the papers, hands trembling now, and his eyes scanned the wordsDISSOLUTION OF ALLIANCE MARRIAGEsigned, sealed, filed.

Dante stood frozen, the papers clutched tightly in his shaking hands. His mind reeled, as if every word on the page were written in a foreign language, as if the signature at the bottom didn't belong to his wife. But it did. Bianca's name. Her real, determined handwritingfinal, and firm.

The wedding ring tumbled out of the box and landed with a hollow metallic clink on the marble floor. He blinked, as if waking from a dream.

"No" he muttered to himself, fumbling for his phone. His hands trembled as he scrolled to her contact. The screen blurred for a secondeither from the adrenaline or the emotions clawing up his throat.

He dialed. Once. Twice. Three times. No answer.

He tried again. Left a voicemail. Texted.

Dante: Bianca. What kind of stunt is this?

Dante: This isn't funny. Call me back now.

Dante: Where are you?

Still nothing.

Across the ballroom, Adriana noticed his rigid posture, the flicker of panic in his usually unreadable eyes. She walked over, a glass of champagne in one hand, her signature smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"What's going on?" she asked, voice silky. "You look like someone died."

Dante didn't answer, just shoved the open box toward her.

Adriana's gaze fell to the ring first, then the papers. Dissolution.

And just like that, a flutter of glee tickled her chest. She almost gasped. She had dreamed of this moment for months, years even, since Bianca had returned to claim what was "rightfully hers." Since Bianca came back and stole the man Adriana believed was meant for her. Her tongue touched the edge of her canine, then pulled away.

"She finally left," Adriana whispered, eyes wide with mock concern. "Oh, poor thing. Maybe she just needs some time."

Dante gritted his teeth. "She filed to dissolve the marriage, Adriana. She signed it."

Adriana tried to feign sympathy, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Come on, this isn't the first time she acted out, remember? What about that time she stormed off after she caught you with me in the study? She was always too emotional. Jealous for no reason. She'll come back."

"No," Dante said, voice low, eyes still glued to the documents. "This is different."

Adriana's jaw tensed, her smile slipping for a second. But she quickly recovered. "So what? Let her go, then. She doesn't love you. Not like I do." She leaned in, pressing her body slightly closer. "Maybe this is fate, Dante. Maybe we're finally free to be together."

Before he could react, a new voice cut through the air.

"What's going on here?"

It was Viola Benedetti. Regal in her evening gown, lips painted red, her eyes scanned the scene with a sharpness that never missed a thing. Her gaze landed on the papers in Dante's hands.

She stepped closer and snatched them. Her face paled.

"What the hell is this?" she barked. "A dissolution?"

Dante didn't speak. Couldn't.

Adriana stepped in smoothly. "I think it's a good thing, Mom. Let's be honest, they were never truly happy. Maybe they're better apart. Maybe Dante and I"

"Don't be ridiculous," Viola snapped, cutting her off. The heel of her palm came down on the linen napkin folded over her clutch, smoothing it flat edge to edge, a gesture so controlled it could have pressed the rage right out of silk. "Our Family does not tolerate a broken alliance. It's disgraceful. Do you know what this will look like to the other Families? To the Feds watching us? To every silent partner with money in our fronts? I may have hated that child, but she is my real daughter."

Dante's voice finally emerged, hoarse and bitter. "She filed it. Not me."

"Well, fix it," Viola hissed. "Call her. Do whatever it takes. I don't care what you have to do. Settle it before anyone outside this room finds out."

But Adriana was already rolling her eyes. "Why are you all acting like she matters? Bianca's just a name on paper. She didn't grow up in this world. She's not one of us."

That was the last straw.

Dante turned sharply and shoved her aside, hard enough that she stumbled a step backward. The two soldiers standing near the corridor entrance looked away.

"Don't talk about her like that," he growled.

Adriana blinked, stunned. "Dante, what are you saying? Isn't this what we both wanted? You told me that you wanted the marriage dissolved and now she's handingwait!"

But he didn't respond. He was already walking away.

Every step was heavy. Every breath was ragged.

In his mind, her face appeared again. Bianca. Her voice. Her smile. The way she looked at him before all thisbefore he broke her beyond repair.

He thought she would always be there.

That she would forgive him, like she always did.

That she was too poor, too weak, too dependent to ever leave.

But nownow she was gone.

And all that remained was a ring and a signature.

She didn't even say goodbye.

As he stepped out into the cold night, Dante didn't care about the gala anymore. He didn't care about the Russo name. About Adriana. About the silent partners or the alliance.

No. There was only one thought racing through his mind like wildfire.

"I'm bringing her back. She doesn't get to leave me. Not like this."