The funeral was yesterday.
Dante didn't show.
He sent flowers and a thick envelope of cash, the kind of expensive flowers meant to cover the stench of a bad deed.
I burned the bills in the kitchen sink, watching the faces on them curl into black ash.
I sat at the kitchen island, staring at the divorce papers I'd scrawled on a cocktail napkin. It was the only paper I could find when I'd finally made up my mind.
The front door slammed open, shaking the walls.
Dante stormed in, shrugging off his jacket, tossing it carelessly at a chair.
His eyes landed on the napkin immediately.
He picked it up, his thumb pressing an irreversible crease into it as he read the first line, and then tore it in half.
"Enough of this tantrum!" he snarled, tossing the pieces onto the counter.
He glared at me. "You want a divorce from me? Because I missed your brother's funeral? Camilla's been unwell, she's pregnant, I have to be there for her, you understand?"
"It's not a tantrum," I said. "I'm leaving."
"You're not going anywhere. You're my wife."
"Am I?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Then, the sharp click of heels on marble. Camilla appeared.
She was wearing one of my silk robes, a vintage one I loved.
It was open at the neck, displaying the hickeys on her collarbone and chest. She had one hand dramatically placed on her stomach, leaning against the doorframe.
"Dante... I feel so faint," she began, her voice a carefully controlled tremor. "The baby... I think he's restless. It's making me nauseous."
A muscle in Dante's jaw relaxed, his whole posture softening instantly, and a chill hit my chest.
He moved to her, placing his broad hand over hers.
"Go to the master bedroom," he murmured to her, low. "I'll be right there."
"That's my room," I said, my voice sharp as broken glass.
Dante turned to me, his hand on the counter clenching into a fist.
"Not anymore. Camilla needs the space. She needs the big bath for her back pain. You can take the guest room."
"You're moving your mistress into our bed?"
"She's carrying my heir, Serra!" he shouted, the veins in his neck standing out like ropes. "Something you couldn't do."
He pointed at me. "If you could have given me a child, I wouldn't have needed someone else! Don't be so selfish that I can never be a father just because of you!"
The words hit me like bullets; they passed right through, leaving a cold, hollow space behind.
He knew exactly why I couldn't bear children.
He knew it was because I'd taken shrapnel for him five years ago.
To save him. The shrapnel that tore through my uterus.
"I took three bullets for you," I said quietly, the memory a dull ache in my abdomen.
Back then, Dante wasn't the crime lord yet. We were caught in an ambush. I shielded him, took several shots, one of them hitting my lower abdomen, leaving me unable to have children.
I knew he wanted kids, so I tried to call off the wedding.
He refused without a second thought.
He said I mattered more to him than any child ever could.
And now, he was calling me selfish.
"And you lived," he countered. "Don't play the victim. You were born for this life. Camilla's different... she's delicate. She's pure."
A beat of silence, then he added, "What I mean is, you could totally think of me and Camilla's kid as our own. If you want, we'll be his parents together."
I shook my head, decisive. "I don't want that."
Dante's patience evaporated completely. "Serra, don't think I'll endlessly tolerate your bad temper just because I love you."
"I said, you'll always be my wife. You have to learn to accept Camilla."
"She'll stay in the master bedroom until the baby comes. You move to the guest room for now."
He turned his back and followed Camilla upstairs.
I stood there for a long time, frozen in the dead silence of the kitchen.
Later, my throat dry, I went to the fridge for water.
Camilla was just standing there, leaning against the counter, eating an apple.
She smiled when she saw me, her lips parting slowly over her teeth.
"He's so happy about the baby," she said, chewing, unconcerned. "Too bad about your brother. But maybe it's for the best. He was always a loser, wasn't he?"
The sanity in my brain evaporated.
My hand moved, a blur.
I slapped her.
Hard.
The sound cracked through the kitchen.
Camilla gasped, clutching her cheek. Shock flickered in her eyes, then was replaced by malice.
Then, her gaze dropped.
She saw the edge of fresh bandages peeking from my waistband, the aftermath of the recent ambush.
She reached out and jammed her fingers directly into my wound.
Pain exploded behind my eyes, turning the world white.
I felt a hot, tearing pull as the stitches gave way.
I crumpled to the floor, my lungs refusing to work, my mouth open in a soundless scream.
"Dante!" she shrieked, fake tears instantly welling up and spilling down her face. "She hit me! She's trying to hurt the baby!"
Dante stormed into the room.
He saw Camilla crying, playing the victim to perfection.
He saw me curled on the floor, fetal, clutching my bleeding stomach.
He didn't look at my wound. He didn't even blink.
He stepped over me like I was a stain on the floor and went straight to her.
"Get out of my sight, Serra," he snarled, holding Camilla. "If you touch her again, I'll forget you ever existed."
I coughed, a metallic taste flooding my mouth.
Blood spattered on the pristine white tile.
"You already have," I whispered.
