After losing a game of truth or dare, my fiancé went to City Hall and married another woman.

I had called him forty-seven times.

In the end, the only answer I got was Seraphina’s Instagram story.

In the photo, she and Vincenzo were holding a brand-new marriage certificate. She was smiling like she had won, and he was wearing the white shirt I had ironed for him that morning, his fingers casually pinching her cheek.

One minute later, he called me.

“Elena, don’t make this bigger than it is. It was just a game. Give me thirty days. I’ll divorce her, and then we’ll get married like we planned.”

He thought I would forgive him the way I always had for the past three years.

But this time, I didn’t cry.

I didn’t make a scene.

I simply liked Seraphina’s post and commented, Congratulations.

Then I took off my engagement ring and left New York.

He thought I was just throwing a fit.

Only when his calls stopped going through, and his men searched the entire city without finding me, did he finally panic.

But he had no idea.

The Elena who loved him had died the moment he married someone else.

The marble floors of New York City Hall glinted coldly under the fluorescent lights.

One minute remained until our scheduled appointment. Vincenzo’s phone went straight to voicemail for the forty-seventh time.

I leaned against a marble pillar.

Then my phone pinged.

My informant had sent me a screenshot from Seraphina’s private Instagram story.

Truth or dare went way too far. We actually got married.

Below the caption was a photo.

Seraphina and Vincenzo were holding a freshly signed marriage certificate.

The city clerk’s stamp was still visible at the bottom.

Vincenzo’s fingers pinched Seraphina’s cheek, a lazy smirk on his face.

His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar.

The same shirt I had pressed for him that morning.

Three months earlier, I had brought him that custom silk shirt for our engagement photos.

He had been cleaning his Beretta 92F, not even looking up.

“It’s just a family formality. Stop being so dramatic.”

My thumb hovered over the screen. I liked the post and typed “Congratulations.”

My phone rang immediately.

Vincenzo’s voice was sharp with annoyance.

“Delete that comment. Seraphina’s almost crying. It was just a game. I’ll divorce her in a month, then we’ll get married. Go back to the apartment and stop acting like a child.”

I looked down at the crumpled appointment confirmation in my hand. I had booked it three months in advance.

A small, cold smile touched my lips.

Three years of late nights covering his back, three years of putting my family’s plans on hold for him, three years of pretending his casual cruelty did not hurt.

All of it, just a game.

Marco, my driver and bodyguard, opened the door of the waiting Bentley.

“Where to, Miss?”

“Manhattan apartment,” I said, sliding into the back seat.

The apartment was loud when I walked in.

Vincenzo’s capos sat rigidly on the leather couches, half-empty whiskey glasses on crystal coasters, crushed cigarette butts in brass ashtrays.

One of them said to him: “Don Vincenzo... what if Donna doesn’t let this blow over?”

Vincenzo was on the couch, Seraphina curled in his lap, twisting the marriage license between her manicured fingers.

Vincenzo replied: “She won’t. She knows I love her. Five years ago, when the Moretti faction hunted her down, I was the one who risked my life to save her.”

His words took me straight back.

My family had gone to war with the Moretti faction over the Brooklyn port territories.

I had been chased for miles, my car rolling down a steep hillside.

Vincenzo had not hesitated for a second. He had jumped straight off the highway and slid down the slope to find me.

If he had not thrown himself down that hill, I would have died that day.

But when had he changed?

Probably three years ago, when he met Seraphina.

The room went silent when they saw me. All of Vincenzo’s core men stood up respectfully at the sight of me.

“Elena,” Seraphina said, putting on a wide, innocent smile.

“Don’t be mad. It was just a game. Vincenzo’s too nice to let me lose.”

Vincenzo looked up, his arm tightening around Seraphina’s waist.

“It’s just a piece of paper, Elena. I’ll divorce her in a month. My heart’s still with you. Don’t be so stubborn.”

“Took you long enough. We were wondering if you’d bailed entirely. Seraphina was asking about that risotto you make. She’d heard it’s good.”

I walked to the coffee table and picked up the marriage license. The photo was good.

They looked happy, more natural than we had ever looked in any family press photo.

“It’s a nice photo,” I said, setting it back down. “Congratulations, Vincenzo. I mean it.”

Vincenzo’s jaw tightened.

“I told you it was a game. Stop being unreasonable.”

“I’m not being unreasonable,” I said, my voice calm and even.

I looked around the room, meeting each man’s eyes one by one, before settling on Seraphina’s triumphant face.

“I’m happy for you both.”

The room went dead quiet.

Seraphina’s smile froze on her face, and she clung tighter to Vincenzo’s arm.

Vincenzo stood up abruptly, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the study.

“We need to talk. Now.”

I pulled my arm free.

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m packing my things. I’ll be gone by tonight.”

“Are you serious?” Vincenzo’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl, the tone he used with men who betrayed him and ended up at the bottom of the Hudson.

“I’m giving you one week to calm down. One week. Then I’ll divorce her, and we’ll get married like we planned one month later. Don’t push me.”

I said nothing.

I turned and walked into the bedroom, locking the door behind me.

Outside, Vincenzo banged on the door so hard the wood shook.

“Elena! Open this door! You’re making a fool of yourself in front of my men!”

Seraphina’s soft voice drifted through the wood, sweet as poison.

“Vincenzo, don’t yell at her. It’s my fault. I should’ve never made you play the game. I’ll leave, okay? I don’t want to cause trouble between you two.”

I ignored them all. I opened my closet and took out a suitcase.

I packed only my most essential things: a few changes of clothes, my mother’s pearl necklace, the Luccarelli family ring I wore around my neck, and the gun I kept hidden in my nightstand.

I walked past the bookshelf and paused, my fingers brushing the spine of an old copy of The Godfather.

It was the first thing Vincenzo had ever given me since three years ago, thrown at my head after a particularly tense meeting.

“Read this,” he’d said. “You need to learn how this world works.” I’d read it three times. I left it on the shelf.

Thirty minutes later, I dragged the suitcase out of the bedroom.

Vincenzo was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, a smirk on his face like he’d already won.

“There. You finally came to your senses. Go apologize to Seraphina, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

I walked past him without a glance.

“Elena!” he shouted, his voice cracking with anger. “Where do you think you’re going?”

I did not answer. I walked out the front door, and Marco closed it behind me, cutting off the sound of his yelling.

In the car, I pulled out my phone.

I deleted all of Vincenzo’s texts.

Three years’ worth, all of them short and demanding.

Bring me a coffee.

Meet me at the warehouse.

Seraphina needs a ride.

I blocked his number, scrubbed every trace of him from my devices, and deleted all our photos.

Then I called Antonio, my second-in-command at the Luccarelli New York office.

“I’m returning to Sicily tomorrow,” I said. “Have all my work transferred to you by the end of the day.”

“Miss Elena?” Antonio sounded surprised. “Is everything alright? Did something happen with the Ferraros?”

“Our engagement is off,” I said simply. “That’s all you need to know.”

I hung up and looked out the window at the New York skyline.

“Marco,” I said. “Book the private jet to Palermo. We leave as soon as I finish my business. Use the family’s private airstrip. No flight plans, no records. I don’t want anyone to know I’m leaving.”

“Yes, Miss.”

Back at the apartment, I knew Vincenzo was watching my car drive away.

I could almost hear him kick the coffee table, sending beer bottles crashing to the floor.

He would mutter.

“She’ll be back by tomorrow. She always is.”

And Seraphina would wrap her arms around his waist, and he would forget all about me.

The next day, I went to the Luccarelli office as usual.

No one would have guessed anything was wrong.

I spent the morning going over reports and signing papers, handing off my projects to Antonio one by one. The other employees whispered among themselves.

“Did she and Vincenzo fight again?”

“They always fight. They’ll make up by the end of the week. We all know they love each other!”

“Vincenzo’s probably just busy with that Seraphina girl. You know how he is.”

Antonio pulled me aside at lunch.

“Elena, are you sure about this? Vincenzo and his family will be furious if you cancel the engagement.”

“I’m not marrying him.”

Antonio sighed. “Alright. But take some time off, okay? You’ve been working too hard. The office will be here when you get back.”

That afternoon, a delivery arrived at the office: a dozen red roses and a black American Express card.

The note was in Vincenzo’s messy handwriting: “Stop being a brat. Come home when you’re done pouting.”

I handed the roses to my assistant. “Throw these away.”

I gave the card back to the delivery man. “Return this to sender.”

I knew Vincenzo would be furious when he got the card back. He would tell his men I would come crawling back when I realized I could not live without him.

That afternoon, Seraphina was loitering in the Luccarelli lobby.

When I walked out, she ran up to me, waving the marriage license.

Marco stepped between us immediately, blocking her path.

“Vincenzo says he’ll divorce me in a week,” Seraphina said, her voice sweet and poisonous. “But I think you should just give up. He loves me, not you. You’re just a business deal to him.”

I stared at the marriage license in her hand, a cold, heavy ache settled in my chest.

I knew Vincenzo had loved me once, but that was long gone. He had someone new now.

Seeing my blank expression, Seraphina’s irritation flared. She went on: “Oh, and you probably haven’t heard—I’m carrying Vincenzo’s baby.”

Those words hit me like a thunderbolt.

Of course. They had been fooling around for three years; a baby was inevitable.

That was probably why they had gotten married in the first place.

My face remained impassive.

“Okay, then, congratulations.”

I did not even look at her. I walked past her and got into the car. The Bentley pulled away, leaving her standing in the street, red-faced and furious.

That evening, my phone rang.

It was Vincenzo.

“I’m having a birthday party for you at the Long Island estate tonight,” he said, his voice still arrogant.

“All the family’s there. Don’t be late. Show up, apologize, and this whole thing is over.”

I hesitated.

It was my twenty-seventh birthday. We had been planning this party for months.

“Fine,” I said finally. “I’ll come.”

I did not go to apologize. I went to say goodbye.

To say goodbye to the seven years I had spent loving him.

The man who had risked everything to save me five years ago had died the day he met Seraphina three years prior.