She Took My Name and My Husband

My hands shoved Serafina, and for a brief second, she teetered back, eyes wide with shock. I hadn't meant to push her that far. It wasn't even a strong shove. But true to form, she made it a performance.

"You little—!" she hissed, lunging at me, nails aiming for my hair.

Before I could react, she had grabbed a fistful, yanking my head violently to the side. Pain lanced across my scalp as I struggled, clutching her wrist, trying to free myself.

"Enough!" I shouted, shoving her back again.

She scratched me. Sharp, burning lines marked my cheek and neck. We stumbled backward, grappling like feral children.

"What the hell is happening here?" Nico's voice boomed as he stormed in.

Serafina melted into tears instantly. "She hit me! Look what she did!" she whimpered, holding up a faint red line on her arm.

"She attacked me first!" I shouted, pointing at my torn shirt, messy hair, and the small trickle of blood on my cheek.

Nico didn't hesitate.

"Bianca, what is wrong with you? Are you insane?"

"She started it!" I yelled, desperation in my voice. "She provoked me! She said—"

"Shut up," he snapped, the word cutting like a whip. "God, you're pathetic. Always the problem."

I froze as Serafina sniffled behind him, clutching her staged injuries. One of the soldiers posted in the corridor glanced in through the open door and looked away just as quickly. In this house, no one saw what the underboss didn't want seen.

Nico's eyes locked onto mine, colder than I had ever seen. "You're nothing compared to Serafina. Elegant, composed. And you? Just a bitter, messy shadow."

The room fell into a heavy silence. The kind that follows betrayal—weighty, permanent. He didn't even check on me.

I am his wife. And none of it mattered anymore.

That night, I cried myself to sleep. The scratch on my cheek throbbed, but the ache in my chest was far worse.

The next morning, Nico asked me to accompany him shopping for the gala. I agreed. For the last time.

At the boutique on Via Castellana, the strip of high-end storefronts the Ferrante Family had quietly owned for two generations, he draped a hand lightly on my lower back, as he always did in public, as if to show care. As if he hadn't spent the previous night in someone else's arms. The shopkeeper greeted him by name and waved the other customers to the back. No one kept a Ferrante waiting.

He browsed suits and luxury gifts, while I followed behind, silent, detached. My phone buzzed. Gianna.

"Who's that?" Nico asked suddenly, narrowing his eyes as he reached for my phone.

I pulled it back, holding it close. "Do you really need to read my private messages?" I asked, arching a brow.

His jaw tightened, but he stepped back. I watched his tongue press briefly along the inside of his lower lip before he spoke. "Enough with the phone. We're heading home soon."

Once back at the compound, he excused himself, claiming a sit-down with one of the capos.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, I moved quickly. Into the study. The room still smelled faintly of cigar smoke and old leather, the shelves lined with ledgers no outsider would ever touch. I opened the hidden safe behind the bookshelf and retrieved the hospital report from my miscarriage. The one no one mourned with me.

I slid it into an envelope, added the signed divorce papers, and finally, our wedding ring.

Sealing it carefully, I called a delivery service to send it to Nico during the gala.

Then, I took one last walk through the compound. Wiping down every surface I touched. Deleting my fingerprints from the smart lock. Leaving the keys neatly on the dining table. Every trace of me erased.

My thumb pressed slowly against the inside of my ring finger, against the bare skin where the band had sat for three years. The indent was still there. It would fade. Everything else already had.