After Losing Our Baby, I Chose His Rival Family

As I returned home and busied myself in the kitchen, I prepared two lunch boxes with the same care I would have given a Sunday dinner. The kitchen in the Bellandi compound was oversized and cold, all marble countertops and professional-grade appliances that had been chosen for show rather than warmth. I moved through it the way I had for years, muscle memory guiding my hands.

I used to cook two lunches often, but back then, one of them was for me. Because Dante and I would eat together in his office at the back of the legitimate front, the import company on Fulton Street, chatting and enjoying our lunch breaks behind a closed door while his underboss and soldiers moved through the hallway outside.

But I could not remember the last time we had done that. The last few days, I was just the delivery girl, and even then, if I lingered too long, Dante would grow annoyed, his eyes flicking to his phone, to the door, to anywhere that was not me.

"Since when did everything change?" I muttered under my breath, wondering how we had gotten here.

When had the love we shared faded into indifference? Was it when Alessia's husband, Rocco, had been killed in that ambush? Or had it begun long before that, in the small erosions I had been too loyal to name?

As I walked to Dante's office with the lunch boxes in hand, I felt an odd sense of detachment, like I was watching someone else's life unfold through a window I could not open.

That would be the last time I did it, preparing a meal for him. The last time I would bend over backward for someone who could not be bothered to notice I was slipping away.

Then, as if he was dedicated to worsening my day, the moment I walked into his office, it was empty. I was not surprised, since he had a habit of disappearing without a word. The room smelled like Turkish tobacco and old leather, and on the desk his pen sat at an angle across an unsigned document, as though he had been called away mid-thought.

Later, after asking his new underboss, I learned that Dante had gone to Alessia's place.

"I will just wait inside then," I said, keeping my tone neutral as the underboss left me alone in Dante's room.

The silence was thick, and I took the opportunity to open the drawer of his desk. My heart raced, but I knew I had to remain calm. The drawer slid open with the smooth resistance of oiled wood, and inside, among the leather folder of contracts and the loaded pistol he kept within arm's reach even here, I found what I was looking for: the Family stamp that would make everything official. The Bellandi crest, pressed in heavy brass, cold against my fingers.

I pulled the printed letter that Don Matteo Moretti had sent me and read it in my hands. The paper was thick, expensive, the Moretti letterhead embossed at the top. A formal offer of protected transfer under the Moretti Family's banner.

"Do I need Dante's signature here?" I muttered under my breath.

Thankfully, Don Matteo had thought of everything. All that was needed was the Family stamp, so I did not need to beg Dante for a signature. The Don of the Moretti Family understood how these things worked. He understood that a woman trying to leave a marriage inside this world could not afford to ask permission from the man she was leaving.

A wave of relief washed over me as I pressed the stamp down, the Bellandi crest biting into the paper with a finality that made my breath catch. The transfer was done. Official. Binding.

One copy was left on Dante's desk, the other safely tucked into my bag. It was the key to my freedom, allowing me to cross the territorial line.

"The next thing to do is..." I whispered, feeling the weight of the decision before me.

Before I could finish the thought, Alessia's voice entered my mind through the private line the Family women shared, the discreet network of calls and messages that ran beneath the official channels like water under stone.

"Bianca, I heard you are already in Dante's office? Sorry, he did not inform you, he was in a hurry to my place. Could you bring lunch here?"

Her soft tone grated on my nerves. I had no desire to go to Alessia's townhouse, especially after the last time when she, Rocco, and Dante had treated me like a ghost at dinner, the three of them locked in conversation while I sat with a full plate and an empty chair's worth of attention.

But that would be my last act of service to Dante. So, I forced myself to respond.

"Okay," I said briefly, dragging my feet out of the room.

When I knocked on Alessia's door, it was Dante who opened it. His brows furrowed and his voice tight. "Bianca? Who told you to come here?" he asked while hastily zipping up his pants, with a shabby shirt hanging untucked around his waist.

The air behind him carried warmth and the scent of a room recently occupied by two people who had not been eating lunch.

I met his gaze for a second before shifting my eyes to Alessia behind him. "Am I bothering you?"

Alessia stepped forward, her breath catching once, almost soundlessly, before she spoke. "No, of course not. I asked him to come. Dante, relax."

Dante, as if he had not accused me a moment ago, nodded and sat on the sofa, making himself comfortable like it was his own home. He stretched one arm across the back of the cushions, legs spread wide, the posture of a man who owned every room he entered and felt no need to pretend otherwise.

"Come in, Bianca," Alessia said, taking the lunch box from my hand. "Let me help you."

I followed her in, pretending to be friendly as I asked about her well-being. "Are you okay?"

She put on a practiced sad face, her words hollow. "It was hard at first, losing Rocco. But I realize now that he did his duty as a captain. I should be proud of him, right? Even if it cost him his life."

Her tone was all wrong, her eyes dry and unconvincing. The performance of a woman who had rehearsed grief until it sounded like a speech at a banquet. Rocco had been her husband, and she spoke of his death the way one might speak of a car that had broken down at an inconvenient time.

I could not help muttering in my heart, Poor Rocco. He did not even get a chance to catch them before God called him home.

But instead of dwelling on Rocco's fate, I felt a growing pity for myself. I had allowed that charade to go on for too long.

As I opened the lunch box, Alessia's eyes drifted to my neck, where the tattoo marking me as Dante's wife was visible, the small, elegant crest inked into the skin just below my ear, the mark that in this world meant claimed, spoken for, untouchable. "So, that's the mark Dante told me about. Isn't it fun to have one?"

I didn't even glance at her, focusing on the food. "It's just a tattoo. You can get one too, if you want. But you were really married to Rocco, so your mark would be real, not fake like mine."

I was planning to have the tattoo removed soon anyway. It meant nothing to Dante, and it meant even less to me.

Without waiting for her answer, since Alessia seemed at a loss for words, I turned around to set the lunch on the table.

Suddenly, my phone rang. Glancing at the screen, I saw Nico, my twin brother's name, flash across.

So, I picked up and stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind me.

"Bianca, is it true what Don Matteo said? Are you really coming back to Moretti territory?" Nico's voice was full of concern. "It's not because Dante hurt you, right?"

I sniffed, holding back tears. The sound of my brother's voice did something to the careful walls I had built. They did not crumble, but they shifted, and behind them was everything I had been refusing to feel. "Yeah, I'm sorting out the transfer now. How's Mom?"

Nico did not push the subject. He was sharp enough to hear what I was not saying, and kind enough to leave it alone. "She's fine, but we have all missed you, especially Mom. When are you coming home? Don Matteo said maybe this week?"

"I have missed you too. Don't worry, I will be home either today or tomorrow."

As I hung up, I turned to see Dante approaching from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, studying me with the same expression he gave associates who had said something that required further investigation.

"Who called you?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"My brother," I replied truthfully. "He was just asking how I am doing."

Dante nodded, seemingly satisfied with my answer. "Join us for lunch, then, since you are already here."

His nonchalance stunned me. There was no shame, no guilt in his eyes. He acted like it was perfectly normal for me to be delivering lunch to him and his lover, as if the three of us were old friends sharing a pleasant afternoon.

"No thanks," I said quickly, forcing a smile. "I have already eaten, and I have other things to do."

"Alright, see you at home," he said dismissively, already turning back inside.

But I knew better. We would not be seeing each other at home again. My next stop was the family lawyer's office to finalize the paperwork for my divorce, the kind of formal split that would be ratified in court and recognized by the Families.

As I arrived at the lawyer's office, doubt crept in. I hesitated at the door, my hand on the brass handle, the street behind me loud with traffic and the ordinary noise of a world that did not know or care that a Donna was about to dissolve her marriage.

But then, memories of that humiliating night flooded back, along with the whispered rumors that moved through the Bellandi compound like smoke through ventilation, the way Dante and Alessia had become inseparable while I stood in the shadows, forgotten. The news of their bond had spread through every Family associate and connected household like wildfire, burning away any lingering hopes I had for our marriage.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. My thumb found the pale mark where my ring used to sit, rubbed it once, and then I let my hand fall to my side. I stopped reaching for it. I chose myself.

"Live happily with your rightful counterpart, Dante," I muttered. "Because I will too."

With renewed resolve, I signed the divorce papers and returned to the compound one final time. I left both our wedding rings and the papers on the dining table with a short note: Please make time to sign it.

The rings caught the light from the chandelier, two circles of gold sitting on dark wood, and for a moment they looked like something left behind at a crime scene. Evidence of something that had ended badly.

In the evening, I stepped on the gas and left the Bellandi compound behind.

At that moment, I felt a strange mix of relief and anticipation. Even though I held the transfer letter in hand, stamped and official, a small part of me worried whether the soldiers at the territorial checkpoint would allow me, their Donna, to leave without resistance. In this world, a woman leaving a Don's household was not simply a personal matter. It was a political event. It was a statement that could be read as weakness, as fracture, as blood in the water.

But, as expected, the rumors of Dante and Alessia's bond had already spread. The soldiers at the checkpoint barely questioned my request. One of them, an older man whose face I recognized from Sunday dinners at the compound, offered me a sympathetic nod before waving me through. He did not say a word. He did not need to. The look in his eyes said everything: We know. We're sorry. Go.

Night passed swiftly, the familiar streets and guarded corners of Bellandi territory fading in my rearview mirror as I drove toward Moretti land.

I was not tired, despite the long drive through the night. In fact, I was eager, ready to reclaim my life, to return home. The highway stretched out before me, dark and open, and for the first time in months the silence around me felt like freedom instead of neglect.

As the Moretti Family border came into view, a checkpoint marked by a black SUV parked beneath a streetlight and the silhouette of armed men, a familiar figure stood waiting apart from the others. It was my twin brother, Nico.

As soon as I stopped, Nico was already at my door, pulling it open. The silver lighter he always carried was in his hand. He flicked it shut with a decisive snap, the sound cutting through the quiet morning air like a period at the end of a sentence. Decision made. His sister was home.

"Welcome home, troublemaker," he teased, his eyes sparkling despite the early hour and the faint circles beneath them that told me he had not slept. "Now, move over. Let me drive the rest of the way."

I laughed, a genuine sound that surprised me, a sense of normalcy washing over me for the first time in weeks. "Sure, thanks, baddie."

Settling into the passenger seat, I stretched my legs, feeling the weight of my journey lift as Nico pulled away from the checkpoint and the Moretti soldiers watched us go with the quiet respect afforded to the Don's guests.

Just then, Dante's voice pierced through my mind, a frantic call on the private line, panicked and raw in a way I had never heard from him before.