The funeral was held with solemn reverence in the private cemetery behind the Bellandi chapel, the air thick with grief and the scent of rain-soaked earth and fresh lilies piled against black marble. Made men stood in dark overcoats with their hands clasped before them. The priest's voice carried thin and reedy under a sky the color of gunmetal.

I stood at a distance, watching as Dante wrapped his arms tightly around Alessia, who was sobbing uncontrollably. Her breath caught once, almost soundlessly, before she said his name into the lapel of his coat, and anyone paying attention heard the confession in that pause. The sight was painful, a familiar ache spreading through my chest, but I pushed it down, determined not to let it show. I was still Donna. In this world, composure was the last armor a woman had.

When I stepped closer, Alessia immediately glanced in my direction. Her tear-streaked face twisted into something like guilt, and she hastily pulled away from Dante.

"Oh, Donna Bianca, I am so sorry. It is just that... we have been very close since childhood," she stammered.

Before I could respond, Dante beat me to it.

"You don't have to apologize, Alessia," he said softly, his hand still lingering on her shoulder. His thumb moved once across the face of his signet ring, a slow, unconscious drag that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with possession. His tone was gentle, far too gentle for a man comforting a friend, especially in front of his wife.

I let out a quiet sigh, resigned to the scene unfolding before me.

It was not the first time Dante's attention toward Alessia had stung. But that day, amidst the whispers of Family members gathered in black clusters under dripping umbrellas and the sadness that pressed down like the low sky itself, it cut deeper.

I could hear them, those same whispers that followed me everywhere inside Bellandi territory, murmuring that Dante had long since lost his feelings for me. That the marriage was a formality. That the Donna walked the estate like a guest who had overstayed her welcome.

But if that was true, why had he married me at all?

I could not help but wonder if it was all tied to the bond that formed between Alessia and Rocco shortly before our wedding. Had Dante married me to prove something to her then? Had I been a statement, not a choice?

I shook my head, dismissing the thought.

It could not be. Dante and I had a relationship long before any of that. He would not have proposed to me just to make a point to Alessia. Or would he?

Lost in my thoughts, I had not realized the funeral had ended, and the mourners had dispersed. The soldiers had filed away. The priest had closed his book. The caretakers waited at a respectful distance with their shovels.

Only the three of us remained, standing under the cloudy sky that threatened heavier rain at any moment. The chapel bell had stopped tolling, and in the silence that followed, I could hear the distant idling of armored sedans waiting at the cemetery gate.

The silence between us stretched thin, and I turned to leave. There was no point in staying any longer, especially when it was clear that neither of them registered my presence as anything more than a formality.

As I walked away, I heard Alessia's soft voice behind me. "We have to find the people behind these attacks, Dante."

"Of course," Dante replied, and there was iron beneath the softness now, the Don surfacing through the grieving friend. "We will find Rocco's killers. I will make sure of it."

I stopped in my tracks, the words hanging in the air like a noose tightening around my heart. They were planning together again. Already folding into each other, a unit of two that had no space for a third.

But that time, I did not want to hear more. I could not.

With the pain in my chest overwhelming me, I broke into a run, not caring where I was going, only needing to escape. The grounds beyond the chapel gave way to the old tree line at the edge of Bellandi property, and the forest called to me, offering sanctuary for the torment that had built up inside me.

I ran through the trees as the drizzle began to fall in earnest, blurring the world around me until the branches were dark streaks and the path was nothing but mud and shadow.

Deep inside, that quiet voice I carried, the survival instinct shaped by a lifetime spent around dangerous men and coded silences, the voice I had come to call Chiara, stirred. She was calm and steady, pulling me back from the brink of losing control.

Calm down, Bianca, she urged. You need to settle your mind. After all, Dante is not your true match. Remember that. Focus on yourself.

Her words were like a balm to the storm in my heart.

"You're right," I whispered, coming to a halt in the middle of the forest, breathing heavily, rain dripping from my hair and running cold lines down my neck. "If Dante can find the one he was always meant to be with, then I can too. I deserve that, don't I?"

Of course, Chiara answered with confidence, and the certainty in that inner voice was the first solid thing I had felt in days.

With a renewed sense of resolve, I made my way back to the estate. I showered, letting the water wash away the remnants of my emotions, the cemetery mud, the traces of incense that clung to my coat, and then headed to the closet to begin packing.

"Tomorrow, I will leave for Moretti territory," I muttered to myself.

It was time to move on, to reclaim the life I had sacrificed for someone who did not see my worth. My thumb drifted once more to the bare place on my ring finger, rubbed the pale band of skin, and then I pulled my hand away and reached for the suitcase instead.

However, as I pulled the luggage from the top shelf and began to fold clothes into it, the door to the bedroom creaked open.

Dante stood there in the doorframe, still in his funeral black, his expression unreadable, his eyes drifting from my face to the open suitcase in my hands. Behind him, the hallway was dim and quiet, the bodyguard who usually stood post having retreated to a respectful distance, as if even the soldiers sensed that whatever was about to unfold in this room was not their business.

His thumb moved slowly across the face of his signet ring.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with something cold, almost detached.

"Just organizing the closet," I lied, feeling the weight of the suitcase under my hands as I folded clothes with a calm that masked the storm brewing inside me. Every crease I pressed flat was deliberate, measured, the way a woman learned to move when she lived inside a house full of men who read weakness the way other people read newspapers.

"I see. Anyway, I will be traveling to another Family soon with Alessia to discuss the ambush hit," Dante said, as if it were the most casual thing in the world.

His tone was indifferent, almost rehearsed. The Don of the Bellandi Family stood in the doorway of our bedroom like a man passing through a hotel lobby. "While you are in the closet, can you help me pack?"

"Sure," I replied, my voice hollow. I kept my eyes on the clothes, refusing to meet his gaze. My thumb rubbed once, unconsciously, across the pale mark where my wedding ring used to sit, then stopped.

"I will take a shower, and then I will be working late at the office again. You don't need to prepare dinner," he added, walking toward the bathroom. The bathroom door closed, and I heard water hit marble, and the silence that filled the space he left behind was the truest thing between us in months.

I did not respond that time, my silence louder than any words I could have mustered. I kept folding my clothes, placing them neatly in the suitcase.

It did not matter anymore if he worked late or spent the night at Alessia's townhouse, or even shared her bed. I had lost the energy to care. There had been a time when the thought alone would have broken me open, when I would have sat on the edge of that bed and wept into my hands until my chest ached. That woman was dead. The woman folding blouses into a leather suitcase had buried her quietly, without ceremony, and felt nothing but the faint echo of relief.

The next morning, I was startled awake by the sound of the bedroom door creaking open.

Dante walked in, looking disheveled. His shirt was half-untucked, the collar carrying the faintest trace of perfume that was not mine. His face was twisted in a scowl, and for a moment his thumb dragged across the face of his signet ring before his hand dropped to his side.

"Why did you only pack your things and not mine?" he asked, his voice laced with annoyance.

I glanced up at him with a neutral expression. "Oh, that was my mistake. I will pack yours later."

"Fine," he muttered, clearly unsatisfied but too tired to argue further.

He reached into his wallet and pulled out a wad of cash. The bills were crisp, the way they always were when they came from the safe in his study, the room no one entered without invitation, the room where the real business of the Bellandi Family was conducted behind a locked mahogany door. "Here for today. I also bought you breakfast, so make sure you cook lunch. Oh right, can you make a double lunch? One for me, and one for Alessia. She is still devastated about Rocco's death after all."

I took the money and slipped it into my purse with the simple answer, "Sure."

Rocco. The name still landed heavy in the room even now, weeks after they had put him in the ground. A trusted Bellandi captain, mortally wounded in a street ambush that nobody had been able to prevent. The kind of death that happened in this life, sudden and absolute, the kind that left everyone recalculating loyalties and distances. And somehow, impossibly, Rocco's death had become the thing that pulled Dante and Alessia closer together instead of apart. His grief had found its way not to me but to her, and hers had reached back, and I had stood in this very bedroom watching the space between my husband and his childhood friend collapse into something I could no longer pretend was innocent.

"Oh, and pack my things by tomorrow," Dante added, heading toward the door. "I will go again since I have got an important meeting at the office. See you."

Before I could answer, his phone rang, and he was gone, already immersed in another world, one that did not include me. I heard his footsteps on the stairs, then the low murmur of his voice giving instructions to one of the soldiers stationed at the front entrance, and then silence. The compound swallowed him whole, the way it always did, and I was left standing in a room that smelled like his cologne and someone else's perfume.

I stared after him, the man who had once showered me with affection became barely noticing my existence.

In the early days of our marriage, whenever I gave him the silent treatment, he would immediately try to make amends. He would bring me my favorite foods from the bakery on Carmine Street, whisk me away on impromptu trips to the vineyard upstate, or surprise me with gifts presented with that crooked half-smile that used to make my heart stutter. He would sit on the edge of the bed and take my hand and say my name until I looked at him, and then he would not let go until I smiled. But those days were long gone. At that time, even my indifference did not register. I could have been a piece of furniture. I could have been a shadow on the wall.

The voice inside me, the one I called Chiara, the survival instinct sharpened by a lifetime spent too close to men who solved problems with silence and violence, murmured through the quiet. Looks like he really doesn't care about us anymore, Bianca.

I nodded, letting out a deep breath. "Well, that just means we won't have to feel guilty about leaving for Moretti territory," I whispered to myself.

I climbed out of bed, heading to the bathroom to shower.

After breakfast, I went to the market, preparing to cook Dante's last meal.

Since that was to be our final day, I might as well go all out. Besides, I had to cook for his rightful counterpart too. I smirked at the thought, the bitter irony of it all. The Donna of the Bellandi Family, shopping for groceries to feed her husband and the woman he actually wanted. There was a comedy in it so dark that even the old capos would have appreciated the punchline.

Chiara stirred, that dry voice curling through my thoughts with a hint of dark humor. Meat. We definitely need lots of meat to make it more festive.

"Absolutely," I agreed, while imagining Dante's expression when he realized I was gone. I pictured him standing in the empty bedroom, the closet bare on my side, the hangers swinging in the draft. I pictured his thumb going to his signet ring, that possessive little habit, and finding no one left to possess.

On my way back from the market, I passed by the training grounds where the young recruits were taking lessons from the senior soldiers. The Bellandi compound had its own practice yard behind the warehouse row, a stretch of concrete and chain-link where boys who were barely old enough to shave learned to move the way the Family needed them to move. After the recent ambush hit, the Family needed new blood, and the training had become more rigorous. I watched them for a moment, the sharp bark of an instructor's voice carrying across the yard, a pang of nostalgia hitting me as I realized that would be the last time I would see them as their Donna.

Feeling a surge of affection for the young soldiers, I walked to a nearby corner shop and bought treats for them. I handed out the snacks, smiling as they gathered around, their hard expressions softening into something young and grateful.

"Thank you, Donna Bianca," they said in near-unison, their voices filled with gratitude. "May you always be happy wherever you are."

I smiled, though their words felt heavier than they knew. "Keep working hard, kids," I told them.

It almost felt as if they knew I was leaving, as if they could sense the goodbye in my actions. In this world, people learned early to read departures. They recognized the look of a woman who was already gone.

As I returned home and busied myself in the kitchen, I prepared two lunch boxes with the same care I would have given a Sunday dinner. The kitchen in the Bellandi compound was oversized and cold, all marble countertops and professional-grade appliances that had been chosen for show rather than warmth. I moved through it the way I had for years, muscle memory guiding my hands.

I used to cook two lunches often, but back then, one of them was for me. Because Dante and I would eat together in his office at the back of the legitimate front, the import company on Fulton Street, chatting and enjoying our lunch breaks behind a closed door while his underboss and soldiers moved through the hallway outside.

But I could not remember the last time we had done that. The last few days, I was just the delivery girl, and even then, if I lingered too long, Dante would grow annoyed, his eyes flicking to his phone, to the door, to anywhere that was not me.

"Since when did everything change?" I muttered under my breath, wondering how we had gotten here.

When had the love we shared faded into indifference? Was it when Alessia's husband, Rocco, had been killed in that ambush? Or had it begun long before that, in the small erosions I had been too loyal to name?

As I walked to Dante's office with the lunch boxes in hand, I felt an odd sense of detachment, like I was watching someone else's life unfold through a window I could not open.

That would be the last time I did it, preparing a meal for him. The last time I would bend over backward for someone who could not be bothered to notice I was slipping away.

Then, as if he was dedicated to worsening my day, the moment I walked into his office, it was empty. I was not surprised, since he had a habit of disappearing without a word. The room smelled like Turkish tobacco and old leather, and on the desk his pen sat at an angle across an unsigned document, as though he had been called away mid-thought.

Later, after asking his new underboss, I learned that Dante had gone to Alessia's place.

"I will just wait inside then," I said, keeping my tone neutral as the underboss left me alone in Dante's room.

The silence was thick, and I took the opportunity to open the drawer of his desk. My heart raced, but I knew I had to remain calm. The drawer slid open with the smooth resistance of oiled wood, and inside, among the leather folder of contracts and the loaded pistol he kept within arm's reach even here, I found what I was looking for: the Family stamp that would make everything official. The Bellandi crest, pressed in heavy brass, cold against my fingers.

I pulled the printed letter that Don Matteo Moretti had sent me and read it in my hands. The paper was thick, expensive, the Moretti letterhead embossed at the top. A formal offer of protected transfer under the Moretti Family's banner.

"Do I need Dante's signature here?" I muttered under my breath.

Thankfully, Don Matteo had thought of everything. All that was needed was the Family stamp, so I did not need to beg Dante for a signature. The Don of the Moretti Family understood how these things worked. He understood that a woman trying to leave a marriage inside this world could not afford to ask permission from the man she was leaving.

A wave of relief washed over me as I pressed the stamp down, the Bellandi crest biting into the paper with a finality that made my breath catch. The transfer was done. Official. Binding.

One copy was left on Dante's desk, the other safely tucked into my bag. It was the key to my freedom, allowing me to cross the territorial line.

"The next thing to do is..." I whispered, feeling the weight of the decision before me.

Before I could finish the thought, Alessia's voice entered my mind through the private line the Family women shared, the discreet network of calls and messages that ran beneath the official channels like water under stone.

"Bianca, I heard you are already in Dante's office? Sorry, he did not inform you, he was in a hurry to my place. Could you bring lunch here?"

Her soft tone grated on my nerves. I had no desire to go to Alessia's townhouse, especially after the last time when she, Rocco, and Dante had treated me like a ghost at dinner, the three of them locked in conversation while I sat with a full plate and an empty chair's worth of attention.

But that would be my last act of service to Dante. So, I forced myself to respond.

"Okay," I said briefly, dragging my feet out of the room.

When I knocked on Alessia's door, it was Dante who opened it. His brows furrowed and his voice tight. "Bianca? Who told you to come here?" he asked while hastily zipping up his pants, with a shabby shirt hanging untucked around his waist.

The air behind him carried warmth and the scent of a room recently occupied by two people who had not been eating lunch.

I met his gaze for a second before shifting my eyes to Alessia behind him. "Am I bothering you?"

Alessia stepped forward, her breath catching once, almost soundlessly, before she spoke. "No, of course not. I asked him to come. Dante, relax."

Dante, as if he had not accused me a moment ago, nodded and sat on the sofa, making himself comfortable like it was his own home. He stretched one arm across the back of the cushions, legs spread wide, the posture of a man who owned every room he entered and felt no need to pretend otherwise.

"Come in, Bianca," Alessia said, taking the lunch box from my hand. "Let me help you."

I followed her in, pretending to be friendly as I asked about her well-being. "Are you okay?"

She put on a practiced sad face, her words hollow. "It was hard at first, losing Rocco. But I realize now that he did his duty as a captain. I should be proud of him, right? Even if it cost him his life."

Her tone was all wrong, her eyes dry and unconvincing. The performance of a woman who had rehearsed grief until it sounded like a speech at a banquet. Rocco had been her husband, and she spoke of his death the way one might speak of a car that had broken down at an inconvenient time.

I could not help muttering in my heart, Poor Rocco. He did not even get a chance to catch them before God called him home.

But instead of dwelling on Rocco's fate, I felt a growing pity for myself. I had allowed that charade to go on for too long.

As I opened the lunch box, Alessia's eyes drifted to my neck, where the tattoo marking me as Dante's wife was visible, the small, elegant crest inked into the skin just below my ear, the mark that in this world meant claimed, spoken for, untouchable. "So, that's the mark Dante told me about. Isn't it fun to have one?"

I didn't even glance at her, focusing on the food. "It's just a tattoo. You can get one too, if you want. But you were really married to Rocco, so your mark would be real, not fake like mine."

I was planning to have the tattoo removed soon anyway. It meant nothing to Dante, and it meant even less to me.

Without waiting for her answer, since Alessia seemed at a loss for words, I turned around to set the lunch on the table.

Suddenly, my phone rang. Glancing at the screen, I saw Nico, my twin brother's name, flash across.

So, I picked up and stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind me.

"Bianca, is it true what Don Matteo said? Are you really coming back to Moretti territory?" Nico's voice was full of concern. "It's not because Dante hurt you, right?"

I sniffed, holding back tears. The sound of my brother's voice did something to the careful walls I had built. They did not crumble, but they shifted, and behind them was everything I had been refusing to feel. "Yeah, I'm sorting out the transfer now. How's Mom?"

Nico did not push the subject. He was sharp enough to hear what I was not saying, and kind enough to leave it alone. "She's fine, but we have all missed you, especially Mom. When are you coming home? Don Matteo said maybe this week?"

"I have missed you too. Don't worry, I will be home either today or tomorrow."

As I hung up, I turned to see Dante approaching from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, studying me with the same expression he gave associates who had said something that required further investigation.

"Who called you?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"My brother," I replied truthfully. "He was just asking how I am doing."

Dante nodded, seemingly satisfied with my answer. "Join us for lunch, then, since you are already here."

His nonchalance stunned me. There was no shame, no guilt in his eyes. He acted like it was perfectly normal for me to be delivering lunch to him and his lover, as if the three of us were old friends sharing a pleasant afternoon.

"No thanks," I said quickly, forcing a smile. "I have already eaten, and I have other things to do."

"Alright, see you at home," he said dismissively, already turning back inside.

But I knew better. We would not be seeing each other at home again. My next stop was the family lawyer's office to finalize the paperwork for my divorce, the kind of formal split that would be ratified in court and recognized by the Families.

As I arrived at the lawyer's office, doubt crept in. I hesitated at the door, my hand on the brass handle, the street behind me loud with traffic and the ordinary noise of a world that did not know or care that a Donna was about to dissolve her marriage.

But then, memories of that humiliating night flooded back, along with the whispered rumors that moved through the Bellandi compound like smoke through ventilation, the way Dante and Alessia had become inseparable while I stood in the shadows, forgotten. The news of their bond had spread through every Family associate and connected household like wildfire, burning away any lingering hopes I had for our marriage.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. My thumb found the pale mark where my ring used to sit, rubbed it once, and then I let my hand fall to my side. I stopped reaching for it. I chose myself.

"Live happily with your rightful counterpart, Dante," I muttered. "Because I will too."

With renewed resolve, I signed the divorce papers and returned to the compound one final time. I left both our wedding rings and the papers on the dining table with a short note: Please make time to sign it.

The rings caught the light from the chandelier, two circles of gold sitting on dark wood, and for a moment they looked like something left behind at a crime scene. Evidence of something that had ended badly.

In the evening, I stepped on the gas and left the Bellandi compound behind.

At that moment, I felt a strange mix of relief and anticipation. Even though I held the transfer letter in hand, stamped and official, a small part of me worried whether the soldiers at the territorial checkpoint would allow me, their Donna, to leave without resistance. In this world, a woman leaving a Don's household was not simply a personal matter. It was a political event. It was a statement that could be read as weakness, as fracture, as blood in the water.

But, as expected, the rumors of Dante and Alessia's bond had already spread. The soldiers at the checkpoint barely questioned my request. One of them, an older man whose face I recognized from Sunday dinners at the compound, offered me a sympathetic nod before waving me through. He did not say a word. He did not need to. The look in his eyes said everything: We know. We're sorry. Go.

Night passed swiftly, the familiar streets and guarded corners of Bellandi territory fading in my rearview mirror as I drove toward Moretti land.

I was not tired, despite the long drive through the night. In fact, I was eager, ready to reclaim my life, to return home. The highway stretched out before me, dark and open, and for the first time in months the silence around me felt like freedom instead of neglect.

As the Moretti Family border came into view, a checkpoint marked by a black SUV parked beneath a streetlight and the silhouette of armed men, a familiar figure stood waiting apart from the others. It was my twin brother, Nico.

As soon as I stopped, Nico was already at my door, pulling it open. The silver lighter he always carried was in his hand. He flicked it shut with a decisive snap, the sound cutting through the quiet morning air like a period at the end of a sentence. Decision made. His sister was home.

"Welcome home, troublemaker," he teased, his eyes sparkling despite the early hour and the faint circles beneath them that told me he had not slept. "Now, move over. Let me drive the rest of the way."

I laughed, a genuine sound that surprised me, a sense of normalcy washing over me for the first time in weeks. "Sure, thanks, baddie."

Settling into the passenger seat, I stretched my legs, feeling the weight of my journey lift as Nico pulled away from the checkpoint and the Moretti soldiers watched us go with the quiet respect afforded to the Don's guests.

Just then, Dante's voice pierced through my mind, a frantic call on the private line, panicked and raw in a way I had never heard from him before.