The Don’s Neglected Wife

I don't remember getting home.

The doorman looked at my face — torn clothes, bandages on my cheek — and didn't believe I was Sera Hart. He called Vito.

When I heard his voice, I snatched the phone and threw it against the wall.

I walked away with nothing. No wallet. No phone. Just the clothes on my back.

I had spent every dollar on a one-way ticket to Tripoli. Half a million. Because someone told me Vito was trapped there, that he'd been caught in a firefight.

I didn't think. I just went.

My phone buzzed. My mother.

"I just heard you went to Tripoli. Dear God. Are you both okay?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "We're fine, Mom."

"Thank God. You're barely three months pregnant. How could you take such a risk?"

I hung up. My hand drifted to my belly.

Vito didn't know. He'd left for "business" the day I found out.

I went to that war zone thinking — if we die, we die together. The three of us.

Now the pain came in waves.

A pair of arms wrapped around me. The familiar smell of tobacco.

Vito.

"Where have you been? What happened to you?"

His eyes were full of concern. As if he hadn't ignored me in that elevator.

I forced a smile. "Fell down once. Then again when I tried to get up."

Like this marriage. Every time I trusted him, I fell again.

"Must have been expensive to fly back on short notice."

He flinched. Then lifted me like I weighed nothing. "Worth it. My wife was waiting."

He knelt and started cleaning my wounds. His brows furrowed.

"I'm sorry, Sera. I shouldn't have left you alone."

His phone rang. He stepped away, answered, and came back with a guilty look.

"I have to go out. Wait for me."

I said nothing. Watched him put on his coat.

How many nights had I sat by the door, waiting? How many meals reheated?

The tightness in my chest snapped.

I stood and pushed him.

"Go. And don't come back."

He tried to kiss me. I turned my head.

He sighed. "I'll make it up to you tonight."

Then he was gone.

I collapsed onto the bed from exhaustion. But the nightmares came. Bombs. Fire. Screaming.

I woke up staring at our wedding photo on the wall.

After the first affair, Rosa had pressed her wet palms against that same photo, leaving four greasy prints. I smashed everything in the house.

Vito got on his knees. Said our second wedding was a rebirth. Begged me to keep the picture.

Those vows echoed in my ears. I still didn't understand.

Why hurt me again?

I grabbed my phone and searched for Rosa's social media.

She was an "influencer" now. Never showed her face. Just videos of her holding a man's hand.

I clicked through them all.

That hand — long fingers, a thin scar on the pinky.

I knew that scar.

Vito got it when we were eighteen. A thug tried to grab me. Vito stepped in and took a broken bottle to his hand.

"It's okay," he'd said, wincing. "Even if I'm scarred, you're stuck with me."

I found the contact number in Rosa's bio.

I called.

A cold voice answered. "Who is this?"