My Wedding with the Mafia Boss, and You Won’t Be There

The apartment was swallowed in darkness when I returned. No light, no warmth, only the cold tang of neglect and the faint stink of something rotting in the sink. I didn’t even bother flipping a switch. I dropped my bag by the door and slammed it shut behind me; the echo of each step ricocheted through the empty rooms like a gavel striking a coffin.

I didn’t bother changing. The thin hospital gown clung to me under my hoodie, but I didn’t care. I collapsed onto the couch, face pressed into the fabric, arms dangling as if my body had forgotten how to hold itself together. The material scraped over my fresh stitches, but exhaustion overpowered everything else.

Sleep came, but it brought no mercy. Dreams are cruel when they already know the truth before your lips do.

Hours passed. I woke stiff and hollow, blinking into the darkness. And then—the sound.

Clattering.

From the kitchen.

My body protested as I lifted myself, stiff and chilled to the marrow, and I crept toward the noise, bare feet pressing against the cold floor. I told myself it was nothing: a faucet left running, or maybe my imagination. But the sight that met me made the blood in my veins stall.

Antonio stood at the stove, searing steak with precision. Diego, silent and deliberate, chopped vegetables at the counter, his movements sharp and clean, like a soldier rehearsing drills. The table was immaculate: plates aligned, silverware gleaming, glasses polished, and a folded napkin at every seat.

They both looked up when I appeared, shadows of concern flickering over their faces.

Antonio spoke first. “We thought you were at your aunt’s,” he said smoothly, the explanation casual, almost rehearsed. “We didn’t want to disturb you.”

Diego’s gaze flicked nervously from the knife in his hand to me. “We had no idea you were in the hospital,” he admitted quietly, the guilt in his tone unconvincing.

I didn’t respond. I walked over and seated myself at the table, ignoring the food entirely.

Antonio frowned and killed the stove’s flame. “You need to eat. You just got out of the hospital.”

I met his eyes, icy and unwavering. “You didn’t check on me for a week.”

Silence fell like cement, thick and suffocating. No one moved. No one breathed.

Then—the doorbell rang.

Both men turned instantly. Diego moved first, long legs taking him to the door in a few swift strides.

Cassandra appeared in the doorway.

Pale. Fragile. Wrists wrapped in pristine bandages beneath the sleeves of a delicate blouse. She looked like porcelain, cracked but not yet broken.

The instant they saw her, Antonio moved. He lifted her from the threshold effortlessly, placing her on the couch as if she weighed nothing. “You shouldn’t be out,” he murmured, brushing her hair from her face. “What if something happens?”

“I was alone in the hospital room,” she whispered, eyes wide and pleading. “I kept thinking… what if I never wake up? What if I open my eyes and no one is there? I panicked. I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

Antonio softened, stepping closer, but she raised a trembling hand.

“If it’s too much, I can go back,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be a burden.”

“No,” Antonio said, low and insistent. “You’re not a burden. You should have called sooner. We’ll take care of you.”

Diego hovered behind him. “We’ll go back to the hospital after checking on Serafina. Then we’ll stay with you tonight.”

I didn’t speak. I picked up my fork and started eating. The steak was dry, overcooked, still pink in the center—every bite tasted like ashes—but I chewed because I would not let them see me falter.

He had made steak. My least favorite.

They hadn’t remembered.

A small, bitter laugh escaped me, swallowed hastily with a sip of water. Meanwhile, Antonio and Diego fussed over Cassandra, setting a place for her, helping her sit, coaxing her to eat like she was made of fragile glass. She drank in their attention, and every so often, her eyes flicked toward me, sharp and triumphant, whispering without words: you lost.

Then my phone buzzed.

Mom.

Over a dozen pictures of wedding gowns flooded the screen: lace, silk, beading, dramatic trains, cathedral-length veils. My fingers hovered numbly until I paused on the third: a satin off-the-shoulder gown, cinched at the waist, cascading ruffles falling like a waterfall. Impulsively, I tapped the call button.

On the third ring, her voice came, warm and alive. “Serafina, did you see the dresses? I think the third one would suit you best. But if your fiancé prefers traditional white—”

“I love the third,” I said quickly, forcing lightness, cheer. “It’s perfect. I can picture it already. I’m… really excited.”

A pause. Surprise, perhaps, at the brightness in my tone. “Oh, sweetheart, I knew you’d love it. You’ve always favored classic silhouettes.”

I nodded even though she couldn’t see me, a quiet laugh trembling from my lips. “Yes. Beautiful. I’m really looking forward to my WEDDING.”

A flicker of movement caught my eye. I didn’t look up.

“How long will you be over there?” she asked.

“Just a week. I’ll finish and come home.”

“Good. Everything here is nearly ready.”

I hung up and set the phone down, and that’s when the weight hit me—the silence that isn’t emptiness but pressure, as if the air itself were holding its breath.

I looked up.

Antonio and Diego were staring at me.

Cassandra froze mid-forkful, her porcelain face still soft, still pained—but her eyes had gone sharp, predatory.

Antonio moved first, stepping away from her with a voice honed sharp as steel. “Wedding?”

Diego followed instantly, jaw tight, brows drawn. “What wedding?”