After Losing Our Baby, I Chose His Rival Family

"Just organizing the closet," I lied, feeling the weight of the suitcase under my hands as I folded clothes with a calm that masked the storm brewing inside me. Every crease I pressed flat was deliberate, measured, the way a woman learned to move when she lived inside a house full of men who read weakness the way other people read newspapers.

"I see. Anyway, I will be traveling to another Family soon with Alessia to discuss the ambush hit," Dante said, as if it were the most casual thing in the world.

His tone was indifferent, almost rehearsed. The Don of the Bellandi Family stood in the doorway of our bedroom like a man passing through a hotel lobby. "While you are in the closet, can you help me pack?"

"Sure," I replied, my voice hollow. I kept my eyes on the clothes, refusing to meet his gaze. My thumb rubbed once, unconsciously, across the pale mark where my wedding ring used to sit, then stopped.

"I will take a shower, and then I will be working late at the office again. You don't need to prepare dinner," he added, walking toward the bathroom. The bathroom door closed, and I heard water hit marble, and the silence that filled the space he left behind was the truest thing between us in months.

I did not respond that time, my silence louder than any words I could have mustered. I kept folding my clothes, placing them neatly in the suitcase.

It did not matter anymore if he worked late or spent the night at Alessia's townhouse, or even shared her bed. I had lost the energy to care. There had been a time when the thought alone would have broken me open, when I would have sat on the edge of that bed and wept into my hands until my chest ached. That woman was dead. The woman folding blouses into a leather suitcase had buried her quietly, without ceremony, and felt nothing but the faint echo of relief.

The next morning, I was startled awake by the sound of the bedroom door creaking open.

Dante walked in, looking disheveled. His shirt was half-untucked, the collar carrying the faintest trace of perfume that was not mine. His face was twisted in a scowl, and for a moment his thumb dragged across the face of his signet ring before his hand dropped to his side.

"Why did you only pack your things and not mine?" he asked, his voice laced with annoyance.

I glanced up at him with a neutral expression. "Oh, that was my mistake. I will pack yours later."

"Fine," he muttered, clearly unsatisfied but too tired to argue further.

He reached into his wallet and pulled out a wad of cash. The bills were crisp, the way they always were when they came from the safe in his study, the room no one entered without invitation, the room where the real business of the Bellandi Family was conducted behind a locked mahogany door. "Here for today. I also bought you breakfast, so make sure you cook lunch. Oh right, can you make a double lunch? One for me, and one for Alessia. She is still devastated about Rocco's death after all."

I took the money and slipped it into my purse with the simple answer, "Sure."

Rocco. The name still landed heavy in the room even now, weeks after they had put him in the ground. A trusted Bellandi captain, mortally wounded in a street ambush that nobody had been able to prevent. The kind of death that happened in this life, sudden and absolute, the kind that left everyone recalculating loyalties and distances. And somehow, impossibly, Rocco's death had become the thing that pulled Dante and Alessia closer together instead of apart. His grief had found its way not to me but to her, and hers had reached back, and I had stood in this very bedroom watching the space between my husband and his childhood friend collapse into something I could no longer pretend was innocent.

"Oh, and pack my things by tomorrow," Dante added, heading toward the door. "I will go again since I have got an important meeting at the office. See you."

Before I could answer, his phone rang, and he was gone, already immersed in another world, one that did not include me. I heard his footsteps on the stairs, then the low murmur of his voice giving instructions to one of the soldiers stationed at the front entrance, and then silence. The compound swallowed him whole, the way it always did, and I was left standing in a room that smelled like his cologne and someone else's perfume.

I stared after him, the man who had once showered me with affection became barely noticing my existence.

In the early days of our marriage, whenever I gave him the silent treatment, he would immediately try to make amends. He would bring me my favorite foods from the bakery on Carmine Street, whisk me away on impromptu trips to the vineyard upstate, or surprise me with gifts presented with that crooked half-smile that used to make my heart stutter. He would sit on the edge of the bed and take my hand and say my name until I looked at him, and then he would not let go until I smiled. But those days were long gone. At that time, even my indifference did not register. I could have been a piece of furniture. I could have been a shadow on the wall.

The voice inside me, the one I called Chiara, the survival instinct sharpened by a lifetime spent too close to men who solved problems with silence and violence, murmured through the quiet. Looks like he really doesn't care about us anymore, Bianca.

I nodded, letting out a deep breath. "Well, that just means we won't have to feel guilty about leaving for Moretti territory," I whispered to myself.

I climbed out of bed, heading to the bathroom to shower.

After breakfast, I went to the market, preparing to cook Dante's last meal.

Since that was to be our final day, I might as well go all out. Besides, I had to cook for his rightful counterpart too. I smirked at the thought, the bitter irony of it all. The Donna of the Bellandi Family, shopping for groceries to feed her husband and the woman he actually wanted. There was a comedy in it so dark that even the old capos would have appreciated the punchline.

Chiara stirred, that dry voice curling through my thoughts with a hint of dark humor. Meat. We definitely need lots of meat to make it more festive.

"Absolutely," I agreed, while imagining Dante's expression when he realized I was gone. I pictured him standing in the empty bedroom, the closet bare on my side, the hangers swinging in the draft. I pictured his thumb going to his signet ring, that possessive little habit, and finding no one left to possess.

On my way back from the market, I passed by the training grounds where the young recruits were taking lessons from the senior soldiers. The Bellandi compound had its own practice yard behind the warehouse row, a stretch of concrete and chain-link where boys who were barely old enough to shave learned to move the way the Family needed them to move. After the recent ambush hit, the Family needed new blood, and the training had become more rigorous. I watched them for a moment, the sharp bark of an instructor's voice carrying across the yard, a pang of nostalgia hitting me as I realized that would be the last time I would see them as their Donna.

Feeling a surge of affection for the young soldiers, I walked to a nearby corner shop and bought treats for them. I handed out the snacks, smiling as they gathered around, their hard expressions softening into something young and grateful.

"Thank you, Donna Bianca," they said in near-unison, their voices filled with gratitude. "May you always be happy wherever you are."

I smiled, though their words felt heavier than they knew. "Keep working hard, kids," I told them.

It almost felt as if they knew I was leaving, as if they could sense the goodbye in my actions. In this world, people learned early to read departures. They recognized the look of a woman who was already gone.