The Mafia Don Who Lost His Bride

I never thought packing could break a person. Every item I folded into the suitcase felt like tearing a piece of my life with Dominic free from the bone. The life I had imagined would last until they put me in the ground.

I bit back tears when I stared at the empty closet. The hangers swayed gently, catching the faint light from the window like skeletal fingers waving goodbye. I couldn't believe this was happening. We were supposed to be bound for life. A sacred betrothal, sealed in blood and witnessed by the Family. Instead, here I stood in a half-stripped room, shoving silk blouses into luggage like a woman fleeing a war zone. I pressed the heel of my palm against my eyes and wiped the tears away before they could fall. Now was not the moment to be weak. I was worth more than this.

My phone vibrated against the dresser. Ivo. He seemed unfinished with his lecture from earlier, as though the first round hadn't been enough.

"Neve, please don't make any rash decisions. I'm sure Dominic will fix this. He's just dealing with a lot right now. Give him time to make it up to you."

I scoffed and rolled my eyes hard enough to feel the pull in my temples.

"Fix this? How could he?" My voice came out low and venomous, barely above a whisper. "Where was he, Ivo? He canceled without thinking twice. He didn't even think of me. And I'm supposed to understand him." I hissed the last word like it was poison on my tongue and pulled the phone away from my ear, ignoring whatever he said next.

I shoved the last blouse into the suitcase, pressing it down with both hands, trying to crush the memory of the blood-bound union that was supposed to happen today. I had dreamt of it for months. Walking through the grand hall of the Valente compound with the entire Family watching. The candlelight. The oath. The ring of witnesses. Dominic's hand closing over mine as the Consigliere read the vows that would bind us before God and the Family both.

But today, when it was supposed to happen, Dominic's eyes had gone to Chiara. Sweet, fragile Chiara Mancuso, who had faked another injury during her training session. Collapsed in the gym like a porcelain doll with a cracked spine. I couldn't count how many times she had pulled this act, and I couldn't fathom how blind Dominic remained to the performance. Every time, the same script. The trembling lip, the wide doe eyes, the whispered "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause trouble." And every time, Dominic dropped everything. Dropped me.

"Damn them."

I zipped the suitcase with a vicious pull, grabbed the handle, and walked out. I told no one. Not even Nonna Lolita, who loved me more than anyone left in that house. She would have stopped me, and I couldn't afford to be stopped. Not tonight.

The car I had called was already idling at the curb outside the compound's service entrance, its headlights cutting pale lines through the October dark. I rushed down the gravel path, stuffed my luggage into the trunk, and slid into the back seat, instructing the driver to go. No hesitation. No looking back.

I looked back.

The compound shrank in the rear window, its iron gates and limestone walls dissolving into the amber blur of passing streetlights. My heart sat like a stone behind my ribs. Every block we passed carried a memory. The corner café where Dominic had bought me espresso the morning after our betrothal was announced. The park where he had walked with me in silence, his hand warm against the small of my back, saying nothing because nothing needed to be said. I had fought for so long to make this work, to earn my place beside him, to prove that I was more than just a name on an old arrangement between our fathers. But now I was done. I was taking back control, even if it carved me hollow.

When I arrived at my old apartment in the Village, I stood on the sidewalk and stared at the building before going in. A narrow brownstone with a fire escape that zigzagged up the facade like a scar. I had lived here less than a year before moving into the compound, and it had felt like home then. Comforting but painful now, the way a childhood bedroom feels after a funeral. I wished I could become the old Neve. The one full of hope. The one who still believed that Dominic Valente's love was something she could hold in her hands.

I dragged the suitcase up three flights of stairs. Its weight felt lighter than whatever sat crushing my chest. When I reached the bedroom, the small space felt foreign, the air stale and cold, the bed stripped to a bare mattress. But I welcomed the change. Anything was better than that compound tonight.