She Wore Her Sister's Ring

The estate was unusually quiet when Celia, Vera, Marco, and Enzo returned late that night. Laughter echoed through the marble foyer as they fumbled with the heavy front door, still riding the warmth of their late-night outing. They had gone for drinks after dinner at one of the Family's restaurants downtown, enjoying themselves far more than they probably should have.

Celia stepped inside first, reaching for the light switch on the paneled wall.

Nothing.

The foyer remained bathed in shadows.

"What the hell?" Celia muttered, flicking the switch again. The lights finally blinked on, and the front room came into full view.

It was a mess. Cushions scattered on the floor. Dishes still on the table from the previous afternoon. A faint trail of mud leading from the door. The entire estate looked like it hadn't been touched all day.

"The fuck is this?" Celia growled, stepping inside. "Seraphina! What the hell is this?!"

No answer.

He made a move to rush toward the stairs, but Vera stopped him, her hand on his arm. "Come on," she said with a light laugh. "Don't ruin the night. She's probably just sulking again. Sleeping, maybe."

"She always does this when she wants attention," Marco added, removing his shoes carelessly.

Enzo chuckled. "Yeah, man, just let her be. She'll clean this up in the morning like she always does."

Celia hesitated. "But this mess—"

Vera tugged his arm gently. "Come to bed with me," she whispered, pressing her lips to his ear. "Don't let her ruin our night." Then she laughed softly, adding, "She's probably just pouting somewhere, pretending to be important. You know how dramatic she can be."

Celia didn't argue after that. With one last glance toward the stairs, he let himself be pulled into the bedroom by Vera.

Once inside, Vera unzipped her dress slowly, letting it fall with theatrical grace. "You know," she purred, sliding her arms around his neck, "this room used to be hers, didn't it?" She smirked, tilting her head. "Poor thing. Must be hard to realize she's been replaced even in bed."

Moments later, laughter turned into moans.

And while the rest of the estate remained dark and disordered, behind that closed door, Celia and Vera indulged in their pleasure, completely forgetting about the woman who was once his wife, her presence erased with every kiss and whispered mockery.

The next morning, sunlight pierced through the curtains.

Celia groaned, blinking into the brightness, then shot up. "Shit!" he muttered. "My meeting!"

He had a sit-down with the Morettis at ten. The kind of meeting a Don didn't walk into late unless he wanted to signal disrespect, and the Morettis were not a family that forgave easily.

Vera stirred lazily beside him, still under the covers. "What meeting?"

"You didn't wake me up!" he barked.

She yawned, stretching her arms. "I didn't know I was supposed to."

He flung the sheets off and began pulling on his pants. "Seraphina should've woken me up. Where the hell is she?"

He stomped into the hallway. "Seraphina!" he yelled, but there was no reply.

His brow furrowed.

He checked her room.

Empty.

No sign of her.

That's when Marco and Enzo emerged from their rooms, still half-dressed.

"What's up?" Marco asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Seraphina's gone," Celia said tightly. "She's not in her room."

"Maybe she went out early," Vera offered from behind him. "Come on, she's probably just sulking. Again."

They all went downstairs, expecting breakfast at least. But the kitchen was silent. The long table in the dining room was bare. The sink untouched. The fridge unopened. There was no breakfast.

Not even coffee.

"What the actual—" Celia slammed his hand against the table. "She didn't even cook?!"

He pulled out his phone. Dialed her number.

No signal.

"Not reachable," he hissed. "Where the fuck is she?"

Vera twirled her hair and sighed. "She probably went out early to buy groceries or something."

"No." Celia's voice was sharper now. "I know her. Seraphina never leaves this place messy. She always wakes me up before meetings. She never lets a day pass without making food. This isn't like her—"

He paused. A sick feeling clawed at his chest.

His mind flashed to something. Something small, insignificant at the time.

"Shit." He froze. "Last night. The dinner…"

"What dinner?" Enzo asked.

"The dinner date. I told her we'd go out."

"Oh," Vera said slowly, glancing away. She touched the inside of her left wrist, fingers resting on the pulse point. "You mean you think… she was still waiting for you?"

"She wouldn't do that," Marco scoffed. "She's not that pathetic."

"Yeah," Enzo chuckled. "She must've known you were just saying that to calm her down. No one waits that long."

But Celia wasn't listening anymore. He was already grabbing his car keys and storming out the door.

He sped through the city, heart pounding against his ribs. The morning traffic on the boulevard blurred past. When he reached the trattoria, he rushed inside.

"Excuse me," he said to the waitress behind the counter. "Last night, there was a woman here. Seraphina. Did she say anything? Did she wait… or do you know where she is?"

The woman blinked, then nodded. "Yes. I remember her because she waited for more than hours before leaving. She left this for someone named Celia. I think it's you because you have the same description as she said."

She handed him a white envelope. Celia opened it with shaking hands.

Inside was her wedding ring.

A folded document bearing the seal of their union, marked across the front in Seraphina's handwriting: Invalid.

And a single sheet of paper. A death certificate.

For their unborn child.

The world seemed to tilt.

He could hear nothing but the pounding in his ears. The way the paper trembled in his grip.

"Before she left," the woman added quietly, "she told us… 'Give this to him. And let him know he'll never find me again.'"

Celia stood there, frozen.

The envelope in his hands felt heavier than any burden he had ever known.