Twenty Years, One Mistake

I was my husband's childhood sweetheart. He never failed to pursue me for two long decades.

He loved me like I was his life and cherished me deeply.

But then, suddenly, just a month ago, he cheated on me.

Everybody knew except me.

But I was just pretending like I hadn't caught them and still played along like a naive wife.

That was until I erased every last trace of my existence.

And then, I disappeared.

Only then did that bastard look for me like crazy.

"Mrs. Moretti, are you absolutely certain you want to cancel your ID, passport, and every official record tied to your name? If you ever decide to restore them, it'll be incredibly difficult. It'll be as if... you never existed at all."

The clerk continued trying to change my mind, but I never hesitated. I simply slid the signed documents across the counter.

"That's exactly what I want."

"I need to disappear completely if I'm ever going to start over."

I knew better than anyone how much Domenico loved me.

Or at least, how much he used to.

If there was even the slightest trace of Serafina Cavallo left in this world, he would find me.

A man like Domenico had eyes and ears everywhere. Every port authority, every police precinct, every customs checkpoint from here to Palermo had someone loyal to him. Judges owed him favors. Federal agents conveniently looked the other way in exchange for monthly envelopes.

As long as Serafina Cavallo still existed on paper, he would track her down within days.

So Serafina Cavallo had to vanish completely.

It was the only way to escape him.

After finishing all the paperwork, I returned home and took out my phone to review my escape plan one last time.

But the moment my gaze landed on the wedding photo set as my lock screen, my fingers froze.

Back when we got married, Domenico had insisted on giving me the most extravagant wedding imaginable.

To make that dream a reality, he spent a fortune purchasing an entire villa estate along the Amalfi Coast.

He even named it Nostalgia di Serafina.

Serafina's Longing.

A declaration of love so grand that the entire world heard it.

The day he announced it, every Family on the Eastern Seaboard knew my name.

Old Dons in Sicily sent priceless wines as gifts. Even rivals who wanted Domenico dead couldn't help but acknowledge the depth of his devotion.

Then the story of how he donated his bone marrow to save my life five years earlier became public as well.

Soon, our so-called love story that had defied death became legendary.

People whispered about it at Family gatherings, business meetings, and Sunday dinners from Brooklyn to Catania.

What I had hoped would be a quiet wedding turned into something far larger.

Every influential Boss on the East Coast attended.

It felt less like a wedding and more like a coronation.

And yet now, staring at that photograph, all I felt was bitterness.

Domenico had pursued me relentlessly for twenty years.

Maybe it was because my father abandoned my mother when her blood disease worsened.

When federal pressure mounted, he turned informant and entered witness protection alone, leaving my mother behind with no Family protection, no identity, and no one willing to claim her.

She died alone in a charity ward.

At her funeral, I made a promise to myself.

I would never hand my future over to another person.

No expectations.

No dependence.

No heartbreak.

Domenico stood beside me that day.

He was only a boy himself, yet he tried to sound mature as he placed a hand on my shoulder.

"I'll never leave you, Serafina."

I didn't believe him.

Not for a second.

For the next fifteen years, I ignored every kind thing he did for me.

Deep down, I was simply waiting for him to give up.

Everyone always did.

Then I got sick.

The same hereditary blood disease that had taken my mother.

The kind of illness that forces you to start counting the days you have left.

Without hesitation, Domenico signed the papers to become my bone marrow donor.

The surgery saved my life.

When he woke up afterward, still pale and barely able to stand, he dragged himself to my room.

His body was weak, but his eyes shone brighter than I'd ever seen.

"I did it for you," he whispered.

Even then, I still didn't accept him.

For the next five years, he told me he loved me every chance he got.

Hundreds.

Thousands of times.

Never once giving up.

Then one day, I noticed strands of gray creeping into his hair.

People said the donation had nearly killed him.

That it had aged him from the inside out.

Among rival Families, he had even earned a nickname.

Il Grigio.

The Gray One.

That was the moment my heart finally surrendered.

I'll never forget the look on his face when I said yes.

It was as though he had been handed the entire world.

Before I could change my mind, he slipped a ring onto my finger.

Heavy Sicilian gold.

Old-world craftsmanship.

The kind of ring that carried weight in his world.

The kind that meant forever.

Then he transferred every asset he owned into my name.

Everything.

The companies, the real estate, the legitimate businesses.

All of it.

I refused every last cent.

Instead, I looked at him through tear-filled eyes.

"I'm saying yes."

"But remember this."

"I can take it back at any time."

"If you ever leave meeven once"

"I'll disappear so completely that you'll never find me again."

"Domenico, you only get one chance."

I said those words as a warning.

But the truth was, I never doubted him.

Not once.

Until a month ago.

When he cheated on me.

I've never been the kind of woman who waits around to be abandoned.

Not after everything I'd already lived through.

So this time, I chose to leave first.

I booked my flight.

Prepared a dissolution agreement that claimed nothing.

No money.

No property.

No rights to anything connected to the Moretti name.

I signed it and arranged for it to be delivered three days later.

Then I returned home one final time.

When I stepped through the front door, Domenico was already in the kitchen making dinner.

It didn't matter that he was the Don of the most powerful syndicate on the Eastern Seaboard.

To me, he still insisted on cooking every meal himself.

Still acted like the devoted husband he had always promised to be.

But even the most devoted husband can be tempted to betray his wife.

The moment he heard the front door open, Domenico casually wiped his hands on the apron tied around his waist. Then he strode over and pressed a familiar kiss to my forehead.

The scent of his body wash reached me first.

Warm.

Comforting.

Familiar.

But beneath it lingered something else.

A faint floral fragrance.

Light and delicate.

And unmistakably not mine.

My heart sank a little lower.

The warmth in my eyes disappeared.

"Why are you home so late, sweetheart?" he asked softly. "Didn't the driver pick you up? It's freezing outside. You shouldn't be wandering around in this weather. You'll catch a cold and end up with another headache."

Before I could respond, he was already crouching in front of me.

His fingers worked quickly, slipping off my shoes and replacing them with a pair of soft slippers.

The moment his hands touched my feet, he frowned.

They were ice cold.

Instinctively, he wrapped both hands around them, rubbing gently to warm them up.

The Don of the Moretti Family.

A man whose name alone could silence an entire room.

A man feared across the Eastern Seaboard.

Yet here he was, kneeling on the marble floor of our foyer, carefully warming his wife's frozen feet.

Once upon a time, moments like this would have made my heart flutter.

I would have felt cherished.

Loved.

Protected.

But now?

Nothing.

"Just took a walk around the neighborhood," I replied calmly. "It wasn't far. I wasn't cold."

The guards at the perimeter had seen me leave and return.

None of them had dared stop me.

They answered to Domenico.

But they also knew better than to question the Donna of the house.

Only after he was satisfied that my feet had warmed up did he slide the slippers on properly and stand.

Then a mischievous smile spread across his face.

"Guess what I bought for you this month," he whispered, eyes gleaming like a child with a secret.

I didn't even blink.

"A high-heel brand."

His grin immediately widened.

Of course I knew.

Domenico had never been the kind of man who bought gifts.

He bought entire companies.

Over the years, his so-called surprises had accumulated until I unknowingly owned shares in over a hundred businesses connected to the Family's legitimate operations.

All it took was a passing comment.

A lingering glance at an advertisement.

A product I paused to admire for two seconds too long.

The next day, acquisition contracts would arrive on my desk, routed through the consigliere's office and already signed.

Last month, it had been a jewelry company.

This month, high heels.

He laughed, thoroughly amused, and flicked my nose affectionately.

"Wow. My wife is getting way too smart."

"I guess I'll have to work harder if I want future surprises to actually surprise you."

I brushed my nose absentmindedly, trying to erase the lingering sensation of his touch.

"You've given me plenty of surprises over the years," I said quietly.

"Maybe it's my turn now."

"Domenico, we've known each other for twenty years already."

"Funny. It feels like yesterday."

"I have something for you too."

"You'll receive it in three days."

"Don't forget to check."

The excitement that lit up his face was almost unbearable to look at.

He immediately wrapped me in his arms.

"Oh? My wife is buying me gifts now?" he teased dramatically.

"You keep this up and you're seriously gonna make me cry."

His laughter echoed softly in my ear.

"We still have decades ahead of us, sweetheart."

"I'm going to record every memory we make together."

"One day I'll tell our children all about them."

"Maybe I'll even carve every single one onto my headstone."

I remained silent.

His voice was as gentle as ever.

But somehow, it sounded distant.

As though it were coming from another lifetime.

Domenico.

There won't be another decade.

There won't even be another year.

That evening, after dinner, he placed the acquisition documents for the high-heel company in front of me and asked me to sign them.

As always, the paperwork was immaculate.

Filtered through multiple holding companies until every trace of its true origin had disappeared.

"Babe, I've already spoken with the designers," he said eagerly.

"They released several limited-edition pieces this season."

"I reserved every pair in your size."

"Tomorrow I'll take you to see them."

"They're exactly your style."

His eyes sparkled with anticipation.

Like he genuinely couldn't wait to see my reaction.

Without looking up, I signed the documents.

"Okay."

"Thank you."

At that moment, he was distracted by something on his phone.

Too distracted to notice the way my expression subtly hardened.

My fingers drifted to my wedding ring.

The heavy Sicilian gold felt colder than usual.

Slowly, I turned it a quarter turn around my finger.

"Heels look beautiful, but they're terrible to walk in," he said absentmindedly while scrolling through his screen.

"From now on, let the driver take you wherever you need to go."

"Or if I'm home, I'll drive you myself."

"Domenico, you really don't have to do all this for me"

Before I could finish, he interrupted.

"Serafina."

His voice was firm.

Certain.

"You are my entire world."

"I'll do whatever it takes to make you happy."

Then a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"And honestly?"

"With a wife as incredible as mine, if I don't spoil you enough, what if somebody steals you away?"

As he said it, his eyes locked onto mine.

The intensity in his gaze nearly made me look away.

The silver strands woven through his dark hair caught the light overhead.

A permanent reminder of what he'd sacrificed for me.

*Il Grigio.*

The Gray One.

The soldiers whispered that nickname behind his back.

They believed the Family's burdens had turned his hair silver.

None of them knew the truth.

None of them knew those gray strands existed because of me.

But none of it mattered anymore.

Not the gifts.

Not the devotion.

Not the sacrifices.

Not the memories.

Because the one thing I needed from him...

Was the one thing he could no longer give me.

His love was already gone.

There was no need for another woman to steal me away.

I was leaving on my own.

After holding my gaze for a few seconds, he lowered his eyes back to his phone.

I forced a faint smile.

"Still working this late?"

"You used to leave work at the office, no matter how busy things got," I said lightly.

Domenico's fingers froze over the screen.

For a split second, guilt flashed across his face before he quickly masked it with a smile.

"Things have just been hectic lately, babe," he said. "It'll settle down soon, I promise."

Then he softened his voice.

"Go get some rest, okay?"

As I walked past him toward the bedroom, my eyes drifted briefly to his phone.

A crying-face emoji filled the screen.

A message from another woman.

Another lie.

But I said nothing.

I simply returned to the bedroom and sat quietly on the edge of the bed.

After a moment, I picked up my phone and logged into a burner account.

Moving through the endless web of wives, girlfriends, and Family associates, I searched until I found exactly what I was looking for.

Ginevra Santoro.

A barely-known actress.

A nightclub singer with no Family connections and no real influence.

Two hours earlier, she had uploaded a new post.

In the photo, she proudly displayed a pair of unreleased heels from Maison Seraphine.

The very same brand Domenico had handed over to me tonight.

The brand that carried my name.

The comments underneath were ruthless.

People mocked her, accusing her of wearing cheap counterfeits and pretending to live a lifestyle she couldn't afford.

In response, Ginevra insisted that she was actually the brand's soon-to-be-announced spokesperson.

According to her, her boyfriend had personally secured the endorsement deal.

The contract was already finalized.

Even the heels she was wearing had been gifted by the fashion house itself.

Nobody believed her.

After all, it wasn't unusual for someone in her position to purchase replicas.

But Ginevra stubbornly argued with every critic.

I scrolled through the comments one by one until a newly created account caught my attention.

The account claimed to work for Maison Seraphine.

> I know her boyfriend. He's one of the people making decisions. He personally approved her as the face of the brand. The photoshoot starts tomorrow.

Almost immediately, skeptical replies flooded in.

> She's barely an up-and-coming actress. What kind of boyfriend could pull that off?

> What does she think she is? The next Serafina Moretti?

> Nice try. Creating a fake account to defend yourself is pathetic.

> If there isn't a photoshoot tomorrow, prepare to embarrass yourself.

> And good luck explaining how you leaked unreleased designs.

Less than a minute later, the account posted a photograph.

A signed endorsement contract.

Then came another comment.

> You'll see for yourselves tomorrow.

I stared at the screen for a long time before finally locking my phone.

A dull ache pulsed behind my eyes.

I pressed my fingers against my temples and slowly stood.

As I walked toward the bathroom, a familiar voice drifted through the partially open study door.

The study was lined with expensive books nobody ever read and framed photographs of dead men nobody ever mentioned.

Domenico sounded furious.

"What is the photoshoot team doing?"

"If they can't handle something this simple, replace them."

"I told you to prioritize the shoot."

"Do I need to repeat myself?"

"Drop everything else."

"And if those materials aren't ready by tomorrow, none of you are coming back. Is that clear?"

I closed my eyes.

The owner of the account defending Ginevra online...

Was my husband.

In that moment, it felt as though every ounce of strength had been drained from my body.

I leaned against the wall.

Silent tears slipped down my cheeks.

One after another.

When Domenico noticed me standing there, I was still trembling.

Still desperately trying to hold myself together.

The color instantly drained from his face.

He rushed toward me, panic flooding his expression.

Without even stopping to put on shoes, he scooped me into his arms as if he were preparing to carry me straight to the emergency room.

I steadied myself against the doorframe and shook my head.

"It... it's okay."

My voice cracked.

"I just read something sad."

"A novel."

"I got emotional."

"Don't worry about me."

"You should finish your work."

His expression softened immediately.

Pressing his forehead against mine, he rubbed his nose gently against my cheek.

"Then stop reading sad stories."

"Haven't I told you before?"

"I want to make you the happiest woman in the world."

He smiled.

"Those heartbreaks in novels aren't real."

"Our happiness is."

Not real?

Then why did it hurt so much just to breathe?

Perhaps seeing me upset made him feel closer to me.

Or perhaps it simply eased his guilt.

Either way, his phone wouldn't stop vibrating.

Message after message.

Call after call.

The constant buzzing filled the silence between us.

Eventually, he offered me an awkward smile.

"Just a little more work."

"I promise."

"I'm almost done."

I didn't answer.

Barefoot, I turned around and walked back to the bedroom alone.

By midnight, I heard the front door close.

A quiet sound.

But loud enough to shatter whatever hope remained.

He had broken his promise again.

Leaving the estate under the cover of darkness.

Past the wrought-iron gates.

Past the guards stationed at the checkpoint, who undoubtedly recorded the time of his departure but would never dare ask where the Don was headed.

I didn't need to ask either.

I already knew.

Silently, I slipped on a black coat and followed him.

The night air was cold.

The compound was eerily quiet.

Long shadows stretched across the gravel roads beneath the security lights.

Somewhere beyond the walls, a dog barked once before falling silent.

After several minutes, Domenico finally stopped.

In front of an apartment building.

A residence located within Moretti territory.

Close enough to reach at a moment's notice.

Far enough to pretend it was separate.

I watched from the darkness as he rang the doorbell.

Moments later, the door opened.

Ginevra Santoro stood there.

She wore a skin-tight black bodysuit that left almost nothing to the imagination.

A dazzling smile spread across her face the instant she saw him.

Then she stepped forward.

One hand pressed against my husband's chest.

Her body nearly touching his.

"Thank you for speaking up for me, Mr. Moretti."

Her voice was sweet.

Playful.

Dangerously intimate.

"I owed you a favor."

"So I prepared a little gift for you."

She tilted her head and smiled knowingly.

"But..."

"You'll have to unwrap it yourself."

Ginevra took my husband's hand and slowly guided it toward the ribbon tied around her waist.

Her intentions couldn't have been more obvious.

I felt like I was drowning.

No matter how desperately I gasped for air, I couldn't seem to breathe.

I watched them disappear inside together, wrapped up in each other as though the rest of the world no longer existed.

And then I ran.

Like a coward.

Straight back to the estate.

That night, I didn't sleep.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my eyes burning until the first pale light of dawn crept through the curtains.

Only then did Domenico finally call.

"Babe, are you awake?"

His voice sounded warm.

Familiar.

As though nothing had happened.

"Business ran late last night. I didn't want to wake you, so I stayed at the club."

"How about I pick you up today?"

"We'll go shopping."

"Anything you want is on me."

I closed my eyes.

How could a man move so effortlessly between two women?

How could he spend the night with another woman...

And still speak to me with the same tenderness he always had?

As if every word were sincere.

As if he still loved me.

I splashed cold water on my face and forced myself to regain control.

By the time I came downstairs, he was already waiting outside.

The black sedan sat at the front entrance.

The driver held the rear door open.

A soldier stood nearby with his hands folded respectfully in front of him.

The moment Domenico saw me, concern filled his face.

The sight of my exhaustion seemed to genuinely pain him.

"Babe, why do you look so tired?"

"Didn't you sleep?"

His brows knitted together.

Then he immediately changed his mind.

"You know what?"

"Forget shopping."

"I'll just have everything delivered here."

"You can stay home, relax, and take your time choosing whatever you like."

I bit down lightly on my lip.

For once, I refused his thoughtful offer.

This was the last gift he would ever give me.

And I wanted to see exactly what kind of surprise he had prepared.

At the boutique on Via Condotti, one of the Moretti Family's most prestigious legitimate businesses, Domenico settled me onto a velvet sofa before immediately beginning to fuss over me.

He disappeared and returned with a milkshake.

Then tea.

Then coffee.

Then juice.

Every drink he brought was something I used to love.

But today, I couldn't bring myself to take a single sip.

When he noticed, he didn't get irritated.

Instead, he blamed himself.

"It's my fault."

"I shouldn't have stayed out so late last night."

"You hate being alone when it's cold."

"And I left you by yourself."

His expression was full of guilt.

"Punish me if you want, babe."

"I deserve it."

Before I could react, he grabbed my hand and tried to press it against his cheek.

As though he wanted me to slap him.

As though that would somehow make things right.

But I gently pulled away.

"I'm fine."

"I just don't feel like drinking."

Tomasso had been watching from the doorway the entire time.

Leaning casually against the frame with his arms crossed, he finally laughed.

"Damn, Don Moretti."

"I've never seen anyone spoil his wife the way you do."

"No wonder you run the entire Eastern Seaboard."

He offered Domenico a cigarette.

But Domenico simply smiled and shook his head.

"I don't smoke."

"My wife hates the smell."

"It bothers her."

Tomasso awkwardly withdrew the cigarette.

"Fair enough."

"I'll have the shoes brought over."

No matter who was watching.

No matter what people thought.

Domenico never cared when it came to making me happy.

The employees looked at us with obvious envy.

Some sighed dreamily.

Others exchanged knowing smiles.

To them, we looked like characters straight out of a romance novel.

A handsome husband with prematurely silvered hair.

A wife he adored beyond reason.

None of them knew who he truly was.

They saw a devoted husband.

Not the Don of the Moretti Family.

Soon, the shoes arrived.

Box after box.

Pair after pair.

Without hesitation, Domenico rolled up his sleeves and knelt in front of me.

Personally.

Patiently.

He helped me try on every single pair.

One by one.

Each time he looked up at me, his eyes softened.

"You look beautiful."

Then another pair.

"Perfect."

Then another.

"Honestly, should we just buy them all?"

His smile widened.

"You could wear a different pair every hour."

Just then, his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen.

And something changed.

It was subtle.

Almost imperceptible.

But I noticed it.

His expression shifted.

His thumb brushed briefly along the edge of his jaw beneath his eara tiny habit he had whenever he was caught off guard.

Without explanation, he stood up and walked outside to answer the call.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

Too many.

Yet he never returned.

Eventually, I stood.

Slipped back into my original shoes.

And quietly followed him outside.

The moment he saw me, he instinctively tilted his phone away and covered part of the screen with his hand.

"Babe?"

"What are you doing out here?"

"It's cold."

"Go back inside."

"Try on some more shoes."

"I'll be right back."

I shook my head.

"It's fine."

"You're busy."

"And I'm not feeling well."

"I'm heading home."

I left before he had a chance to stop me.

But the second I turned the corner, I stopped.

Hidden between the boutique and the neighboring storefront, I pressed myself against the cold stone wall and watched through the glass.

A few minutes later, Domenico ended the call.

He handed the shoes to one of the employees.

Then instructed them to deliver everything directly to the photography studio.

My heart sank.

The photography studio.

Not the estate.

Not our home.

Then, right there in front of everyone, Ginevra appeared.

And my husband wrapped his arms around her.

Before I could process what I was seeing, he kissed her.

Not a brief kiss.

Not an accidental one.

A real kiss.

Deep.

Passionate.

Possessive.

Five long minutes.

Five endless minutes.

I stood frozen.

Unable to look away.

Unable to move.

When they finally separated, Domenico even reached down and playfully squeezed her ass.

The employees nearby didn't react.

Not even slightly.

No surprise.

No discomfort.

No shock.

Nothing.

As if this was completely normal.

As if they'd seen it countless times before.

And suddenly, I understood.

I was the only one who didn't know.

Every soldier.

Every associate.

Every employee on the Moretti payroll.

Every shop girl and receptionist.

They had all known about my husband's affair long before I did.

The Donna of the Moretti Family had been the last person to find out.

My wedding ring dug painfully into my palm.

Only then did I realize I had been twisting it unconsciously.

Slowly, I stopped.

The photoshoot began shortly afterward.

And Domenico stayed.

Watching his mistress the entire time.

His eyes never left her.

Beside him, Tomasso cracked his knuckles one by one.

Pinky.

Ring finger.

Middle finger.

Index.

Thumb.

Then he smirked knowingly.

"Damn."

"She looks incredible."

He glanced at Domenico.

"Where the hell did you find a gem like that?"

He let out a scoff, his eyes trailing lazily down Ginevra's thigh, still exposed below her over-the-knee boots.

"That is impressive? The best part oh, you haven't even seen it yet."

Tomasso smacked his lips, clearly envious.

"When I hit your level, I'm keeping a hundred just like her!"

"But hey, your wife isn't bad either. Even without makeup, she's a stunner."

The second Tomasso mentioned me, Domenico's face hardened.

"Don't even think about touching my wife. Unless you're ready to lose everything."

The shift was instant. Not a raised voice. Not a threat you could point to in a courtroom. Just something in the air that changed, the way a room goes cold when a gun clears a holster. Tomasso backtracked fast, nodding and stammering apologies, swearing on his mother he'd make sure I'd never find out anything.

But at this point, I don't care anymore.

I turned and bolted, desperate to get out of there, only to bump straight into one of the Family's delivery runners rushing in with garment boxes.

"Mrs. Moretti"

"Shh!" I cut him off. "Don't tell anyone you saw me. Unless you want to explain to the Don why you couldn't keep your mouth shut."

I didn't even know how I got back home. When I finally looked up, I was already standing outside the door of the Moretti estate.

One of my shoes was missing, and I looked like a mess.

When I checked the time, I realized eight hours had gone by since the shoot started.

I drove to the closest store outside Family territory and cleared the shelves of every bottle of alcohol they had.

After paying, I stepped outside and as if fate wasn't done screwing with me, I ran into my husband's mistress.

The way her eyes lit up when she saw me. That smug little gleam. Her fingers drifted to the hollow of her throat, touching the pendant that hung there, the one I recognized because the jeweler who made it had offered to show me the design first.

But her words? Sickly sweet.

"Oh my god, you're Mrs. Moretti, right? I've been such a huge admirer of yours for ages! I even sent a gift when you and the Don had your wedding the one every Boss on the Eastern Seaboard attended! I can't believe we live in the same neighborhood!"

"You know, I used to be really jealous of your love story. I mean, who wouldn't dream of a husband like yours? And guess what? My dream came true!"

She giggled, tucking her hair behind her ear in this fake, innocent way.

Her voice dropped to this conspiratorial whisper like we were best friends sharing secrets.

"My apartment here? It's a gift from him basically just like a little 'hello' present, you know? Right here in Moretti territory, under all those soldiers' noses."

"Anyway, hey, can I get your number? We should totally get together sometime maybe go to the spa, something fun!"

I didn't want to let her see me break, so I kept my face blank and gave her my number.

After adding me, she hooked her arm through mine like we were best friends. As if it was a joke, I walked into the neighborhood together with my husband's mistress, past the gate where the soldiers on watch recognized my face and straightened, past the manicured hedges that bordered the compound, her arm threaded through mine like a knife dressed in silk.

She kept chattering in my ear, talking about how her boyfriend gave her an apartment, a front business of her own, and even scripts written just for her.

I just nodded along. Finally, at my front door, I managed to escape, muttering a quick goodbye before shutting myself inside.

The second I was alone, I cracked open a few bottles and drank, hoping to disappear into oblivion. The house was enormous and silent. The kind of silence that only the Don's residence achieves thick walls, soundproofed rooms, a world designed so that nothing ugly is ever heard.

But it didn't take long before my phone buzzed with a message. From her.

[Hey, Serafina, do you like roses? Today's shoot went so well, and my boyfriend says he's buying out every rose in the city to celebrate! That's a lot, right? I can send some to you if you'd like!]

I stared at that shameless message for a moment before deleting it without replying.

By the time Domenico got home, I'd already had quite a bit to drink.

He froze in the doorway, his eyes wide. He didn't even take off his shoes, just crossed the marble foyer and went straight to the kitchen to make hangover soup for me.

I grabbed his hand as he passed by and pulled him toward me like a brat.

"Babe, I want roses. Can you get me some? Like right now."

He let out a chuckle. But his eyes they were empty.

"Why the sudden interest in flowers? Can I get them for you tomorrow, babe? I've got so much to handle tonight, you know?"

"Did you drink too much?"

Tears welled up in my eyes as I shook my head bitterly.

"You can't, can you? Oh well, never mind. Go ahead, finish your work."

"Babe, what's wrong? Didn't you sleep well last night? How about you head to bed early tonight? I'll make you soup for your hangover first, but after that, I've really got to get back."

He kept asking me what was wrong, but I didn't say another word.

What was the point? Nothing I said would change a damn thing. He was the Don. He did what he wanted. He always had.

He watched me sip the hangover soup he made, and then just like that, he left me alone without a word. The front door clicked shut. An engine turned over in the drive. And then nothing but that terrible, soundproofed silence again, pressing against every wall of the house he'd built around me.

About an hour later, my husband's mistress texted me to open the door.

At the doorway, there they were. Nine hundred and ninety-nine roses.

I bit my lip and stomped on them like a woman possessed, crushing them under my feet. Again and again, until petals were ground into the marble, scattering across the foyer like a massacre of red, and I was too exhausted to stand.

Then my phone buzzed again. Her, sending another text.

This time, she sent a picture of dinner: a perfectly set table, candles glowing softly, and a homemade cake. I noticed my husband's hand in the shot. Still wearing his wedding ring.

I stumbled back into the living room, grabbed the leftover bottle of whiskey, and drained it in one go.

I sank drunk on the couch and dialed the broker handling the Amalfi compound. That stupid island. Nostalgia di Serafina. Once the symbol of our happiness, now it just made my skin crawl.

When the call ended, I passed out on the couch.

I woke up to the soft press of familiar lips on mine. Domenico's breath smelled faintly like cream.

"What's with all these cancellation texts? What'd you cancel?"

There was a nervous edge to his voice. A hairline fracture in the authority that never cracked in front of his soldiers. Only here. Only with me.

I sat up and leaned back, putting space between us. My voice was calm, almost detached.

"Oh, nothing. Just scanned some random codes yesterday. Figured I'd cancel them before they tried scamming me."

I glanced toward the doorway. The massacre of roses from last night had already been cleaned up by the staff. No petals, no stems, no evidence. The household ran like his organization: problems vanished before sunrise.

I let out a small breath of relief.

"Did you finish your work?"

He nodded. His shoulders relaxed at my response before heading into the kitchen to make breakfast.

I picked up my phone to check on the island sale, but instead, I saw a new post circulating through the wives' network. Some woman who'd spoken against Ginevra the other day had now written this long, dramatic apology. The reason? Ginevra had just been announced as the new face of Maison Seraphine.

My brand. Named after me.

Breakfast tasted like cardboard, and Domenico wasn't doing much better. He spent most of the meal staring at his phone, this faint, unreadable smile tugging at his lips. His thumb drifted along the edge of his jaw, slow, absent. Whatever he was reading pleased him in a way breakfast with his wife could not.

When breakfast was done, he suddenly froze for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

"Babe, something came up. Business I can't push. Don't worry about the dishes. I'll handle them later."

Before I could say anything, he'd already slipped on his shoes and was out the door. He was in such a hurry that he didn't even take off his apron. He didn't even have time to ask me why I'd been drinking last night.

Well, I guess there's only so much space in one heart. Once someone else moves in, there's no room left for you.

Not even five minutes after he left, Ginevra's name lit up my phone again. This time, it was a photo of two sets of lingerie laid out on a bed. One black, one white.

Hey! Which one do you think I should wear? If it were your husband, which would he like more?

I didn't bother replying. I was too busy packing.

By the time I finished, every trace of me was gone from that estate. Twenty years of a woman's life, reduced to two suitcases and a silence so complete even the soldiers at the gate wouldn't know what had changed until it was too late.

On the way to the airstrip, I got a message from Domenico.

You sold the compound? Why? What's going on?

I typed my reply: Make sure you're home to accept my gift. Oh, and Domenico? You're out of chances.

I turned my wedding ring one final time. Then I stopped.

I slid the heavy Sicilian gold band off my finger, held it for a moment in my palm, and placed it on the leather seat beside me. It sat there, still warm.

Then I turned off my phone, pulled out the SIM card, and dropped it in the nearest trash.

Boarding the plane, I felt lighter.