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.
