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. Omertà 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.
