Some time ago, Don Matteo Moretti had offered me a position as a teacher at the parish academy near the Moretti compound, the very same academy where Dante and I had first met. It was also the place where I had once been one of the most outstanding students, the girl who finished every term at the top of the honors board while the sons and daughters of capos and underbosses coasted on family name alone.
Teaching there had been a long-cherished dream of mine, one I had quietly buried when I chose to follow Dante to the Bellandi estate after our wedding. I had put aside my aspirations, thinking that my role as Donna was my new purpose, that standing at a Don's side carried more weight than anything a classroom could offer.
However, after three years, Don Matteo's unexpected call about the academy's vacancy had stirred something in me. There was an instructor retiring, he had said, and I was the first person that came to mind to fill the position. His voice had been unhurried, the way powerful men speak when they already know the answer but extend the courtesy of a question. I could hear the faint, rhythmic click of a rosary bead turning between his fingers as he waited for my response.
At first, I dismissed the idea. How could I, as Donna, possibly abandon the Bellandi Family? My duty was inside Bellandi territory, or so I had believed.
But after yesterday's devastating ambush and the realization that Dante had prioritized Alessia over me while I lay bleeding on the floor of a safehouse that smelled of cordite and old stone, the clarity hit me.
I was Donna in title, but to Dante, it seemed I was nothing more than an afterthought. The loss of our baby, my near-death experience, none of it had shaken him. Not the blood on the marble. Not the surgeon's grim mouth. Not the silence of the room afterward, when there should have been a heartbeat on the monitor and there was only a flat, merciless line.
Why should I stay in a Family where my presence barely mattered to the Don, the man I called my husband?
My decision was made, and with a firm heart, I called Don Matteo back, agreeing to transfer under the protection of the Moretti Family.
"That is wonderful news, Bianca. Our Family will always welcome you," Don Matteo said, his voice warm, a smile I could almost feel through the phone. There was a gravity beneath the warmth, the unspoken understanding that once he extended his protection, violating it would be an act of war.
"I will take care of the transfer paperwork and send you the files as soon as they are ready. You should start preparing things on your end to ensure a smooth move."
"Thank you, Don Matteo," I replied, my voice steady, though a whirlwind of emotions brewed within me. "I appreciate the opportunity. I promise I will work hard."
After ending the call, I stood there for a moment, taking in the enormity of the decision I had just made. My thumb found the pale mark on my ring finger where my wedding band used to sit, rubbing across the bare skin in a slow, involuntary circle. It was final. I was leaving.
But first, there were still obligations to fulfill, one of them being Dante's lunch.
I packed it up in the Bellandi estate's vast kitchen, where copper pots hung like dull armor from wrought-iron hooks and the marble counters still held the ghost-scent of that morning's espresso. I added a few things for the men who were repairing the sections of the compound that had been torn apart in the hit, soldiers and laborers alike working side by side with plaster dust on their shoulders.
It felt like one last act of duty, something I had done so many times before, but that day, it had a different weight. That was my goodbye to a life I could no longer sustain.
As I headed to Dante's office, I could not help but reflect on my time inside Bellandi territory.
The truth was, I did not hate it.
The Family members, for the most part, had been kind and welcoming to me, even though I was not originally one of them. The older wives brought me pastries on feast days. The soldiers tipped their hats when I passed through the courtyard. The children at Sunday dinners called me Donna Bianca with gap-toothed sincerity.
But kindness from the Family did not erase the hurt I felt in my own home. If my house was not a place of love, if my husband was not there to support me when I needed him most, what was the point of staying? A home should be a sanctuary, but for me, the Bellandi estate had become a place of loneliness, its high ceilings and polished corridors echoing with the particular silence that only neglect can produce.
Lost in thought, I arrived at the Don's office and, as usual, made my way in without needing permission. The guards at the heavy oak doors nodded and stepped aside for me, a courtesy that still held even if the marriage behind it was crumbling.
The workers there greeted me warmly, and I stopped by the lounge to leave the food I had prepared.
As I stood there, my phone buzzed. It was an email from Don Matteo with the transfer forms attached. The moment was real, and I decided to print them out in Dante's office later.
But just as I was about to head there, I overheard the familiar sound of gossip. I paused, my heart sinking as I recognized the subject of their conversation.
"You should have seen it," one of the associates whispered excitedly. "At the clinic, Don Dante brought Alessia flowers. It was so romantic."
"Really? He has been so attentive to her. With everything Alessia's going through with Rocco in a coma, she must be devastated."
Another voice chimed in, lower, conspiratorial. "I wonder... if Rocco doesn't wake up, do you think Don Dante will marry Alessia?"
"Who knows? I mean, some say they are already meant for each other. That they always were."
A gasp escaped my lips before I could stop it. Were they serious? My chest tightened as I stood there, frozen in place, my thumb pressing hard against the bare skin where my ring had been.
"What? How can that be? Alessia was already with Rocco," someone asked, incredulity lacing their voice.
"Well, I heard Rocco was never really her match in blood. And besides, it is not unheard of for Dons and Donnas to marry for alliance even when there is no real bond, right?"
They were right. Dante and I had not been a match born of blood or destiny.
We had met in the academy, and it had been Dante who pursued me first. I resisted at first, clinging to the belief that I would wait for the man I was truly meant to find, the one my instincts would recognize without question.
But Dante was persistent, and he convinced me. He made a promise that if by the age of seventeen neither of us had found that person, we would marry each other, bind our families, build something lasting.
So, we did. For three years, we had lived together, thinking we had escaped the pull of what the old wives in the neighborhood called the blood-bound match.
But hearing their words at that moment, a deep, crushing realization settled over me.
What if Dante really had found his rightful counterpart? What if that counterpart was Alessia?
Tears stung my eyes, but I swallowed them back. I could not let them see my pain. Not here, not in the lounge where every whisper circled back to someone with rank.
With a cold tone, I interrupted their conversation. "Is that true?"
The associates gasped, startled by my presence. "Donna Bianca, we didn't see you there..."
But before I could press them further, the lounge door burst open. A soldier stood in the frame, his face drained of color, and his voice broke through the tension with the blunt efficiency the Family used to deliver the worst news: "Rocco is dead."
