Seraphina Vitiello POV
The nurse didn't just avoid my eyes; she looked right through me. She adjusted the IV drip with a practiced, detached efficiency that told me everything I needed to know. I was a problem. A liability. A patient who had inconveniently "fallen" into a pool in the middle of December.
"Where is he?" I asked, my voice scraping against my throat like a rusted hinge.
"Mr. Moretti had to leave," she said, her attention fixed entirely on her clipboard. "Family emergency. Something about a fall. He said you would understand."
The implication hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. I understood perfectly. Lucia fell out of bed; I fell off a roof. One of us got the husband. The other got a saline drip and a psychiatric hold.
The door opened, but it wasn't Dante. It was Dr. Evans—the man who had signed his name to Lucia's fabricated medical history. He held a thick file under his arm like a weapon.
"Mrs. Moretti," he said. He made the title sound like an epithet. "We need to discuss your treatment plan."
"I don't need treatment," I said, forcing myself to sit up despite the room spinning like a carousel. "I need a lawyer."
He sighed, the sound of a man disappointed by an unruly child. "This is exactly what Dante was worried about. The paranoia. The delusions. The trauma from the Russian kidnapping has triggered a severe psychotic break."
I stared at him, blood rushing in my ears. "Excuse me?"
"You believe your husband is having an affair with his sister-in-law," he stated, tapping the file rhythmically. "You believe there is a conspiracy to kill you. These are hallucinations, Seraphina. Dante loves you. He is devastated by your mental state."
They were rewriting reality in real-time. They were painting over the blood with whitewash, layer by thick, suffocating layer.
"I saw the ultrasound," I said, my hands balling into fists on the scratchy sheets. "I saw the dates."
"You saw what your mind wanted you to see," Dr. Evans said smoothly. "I have signed your discharge papers. Dante insists you recover at the Estate, under family supervision. He doesn't want you institutionalized. He is very merciful."
Merciful. The word tasted like bile.
Time blurred into a gray haze until the tires crunched against gravel. Two hours later, a black SUV deposited me at the Vitiello iron gates. I wasn't returning as a daughter. I was returning as a prisoner.
I walked into the foyer. The air was stiff, thick with the scent of lemon polish and old secrets. My father, Don Vitiello, stood at the top of the grand staircase. Dante stood a step below him.
They looked like Old Testament gods judging a sinner.
"You have embarrassed us," the Don said. His voice didn't boom; it sliced through the silence. "Dr. Evans tells me you are unstable. That you attacked Lucia in the bathroom. That you tried to kill the heir."
"She threw herself into the glass," I said. I looked desperately at Dante. "Tell him."
Dante's face was an impenetrable mask of marble. "Lucia is on bed rest because of you. The stress almost caused a miscarriage. She is terrified of you, Seraphina."
"She's terrified of the truth," I spat, the venom in my voice surprising even me.
The Don descended the stairs. He stopped in front of me. He didn't raise his hand. He didn't need to. The disappointment in his eyes was a heavier blow.
"A Vitiello woman does not act like a rabid dog," he said coldly. "She endures. She supports. You have failed." He turned to Dante. "Can you handle your wife, or do I need to intervene?"
Dante looked at me. For a fleeting heartbeat, I didn't see the underboss. I saw the boy who used to sneak me extra cannoli from the kitchen. The boy who promised to keep me safe.
Then the Capo took over.
"Do what needs to be done," Dante said, his eyes going dead. "She needs to learn her place."
The Don nodded to the guards standing in the shadows.
"Take her to the chapel," the Don ordered, his voice devoid of paternal warmth. "We will pray for her sanity. And then we will ensure she remembers it."
