No Roses for the Mafia Wife

"Time moved differently after that night. It didn’t flow; it pooled around me, thick with silence and surveillance footage."

I should have left. Taken the first flight to Sicily and never looked back.

But pride is a poison. And I’d been swallowing it for years.

The wedding was in two weeks. Every detail — from the Sicilian florist to the security detail — I’d arranged myself. I wouldn’t let Isabella steal that too.

So I stayed. And I watched.

The security feed became my nightly ritual. Isabella lounging in my living room, Alexander cooking for her, laughing at jokes I never understood.

Once, she kicked him playfully.

"You’re really marrying Joanna?" she asked, swirling wine in a Baccarat glass I’d chosen.

Alexander caught her foot, massaging it with devotion. "You know why."

"To punish me." She smiled, triumphant. "This whole house is decorated for me. The ring is my taste. Even your poor fiancée is just... me, but weaker."

He didn’t deny it.

When he leaned in to kiss her, I hurled my phone against the Rossi family crest—a wolf with a dagger in its mouth.

Pathetic. I was pathetic.

For years, I’d believed Alexander was reserved. That his quietness was depth. Now I knew: he saved all his passion for her.

We slept together for seven years. He whispered my name in the dark, but he was dreaming of hers.

The thought made me physically ill.

I was gathering the shattered phone when headlights cut through the driveway. Alexander’s armored Maybach.

He emerged with Isabella clinging to his arm. Then he saw me—barefoot, bleeding, holding shards of glass.

His smile vanished.

"Jo," he said, dropping her arm. "Bella had too much to drink. I couldn’t let her drive alone."

Always "Bella." Never "your sister."

"She’s family," he continued, words tumbling out too fast. "You know how she is—she didn’t want you to misunderstand."

I stared at this man I’d known since we were children playing in abandoned warehouses while our fathers "did business." He’d shield me from stray bullets. He’d wipe my tears and promise, "I’ll always protect you, Jo. No matter what."

Now he was protecting her.

"She’s not my family," I said quietly. "She’s the daughter of the woman who destroyed my mother."

Isabella’s smirk faltered. Alexander’s face hardened.

He stepped between us. "Apologize. Now."

When I didn’t, his voice turned vicious. "No wonder your father preferred her mother. You’re just like yours—bitter and unlovable."

The words hung in the cold air.

I’d seen Alexander kill men for lesser insults. Now he was weaponizing my deepest shame.

Tears blurred my vision, but I refused to let them fall.

Alexander noticed my feet. The blood had dried in dark streaks. For a second, something like guilt flickered.

"You’re hurt."

"It doesn’t matter."

"Jo..."

Isabella chose that moment to sob. "I’m causing trouble again!" She ran toward the road—a dramatic, stumbling sprint.

Alexander didn’t hesitate. "Wait here," he tossed over his shoulder, already chasing her.

I watched them disappear into the night.

Then I walked inside, packed a single suitcase, and booked a one-way ticket to Palermo.

But not before copying every second of that security footage to an encrypted drive.