The Mafia Lord’s Wife Who Walked Away

Serena thought it would take a while for someone like Dante Bianchi to answer.

Little did she know, the line had already connected at the first ring.

“Serena,” his voice came sharp and low, steel wrapped in velvet. “You’re not playing with me, are you?”

She stayed silent, her breath caught in her throat.

“I’ve been chasing you for as long as you’ve been crawling after Luca Romano. Seven years—seven wasted years—while you froze me out like ice. And now, suddenly, you bend? What the hell changed?”

Dante Bianchi. Head of the Bianchi syndicate. Her almost-choice.

He had chased her with ruthless patience for seven years. In truth, she nearly gave in.

But on the night she was supposed to decide, Luca whispered promises that never came true. And she left Dante behind.

Now, faced with his questions, Serena took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Forget I called.”

A crash thundered through the receiver—glass or maybe a chair hitting the wall. Her pulse spiked.

“You think I’m a fool you can pick up when you’re lonely and toss aside when you’re not? Huh, Serena?” His voice roared, full of fury. “No. You chose me this time. You don’t get to run again.”

She bit her lip. “Dante—”

“One month,” he cut her off, voice like a loaded gun. “Deal with that bastard husband. After that, I’m coming for you. And when I do, you won’t escape me.”

The line went dead.

A small, wry smile tugged at her lips. He hasn’t changed, she realized. Not in anger, not in desire.

That night, Luca never came home.

She spent the hours in silence, sorting through closets and drawers, folding her life into boxes. By dawn, pale light spilled across the marble floors when the front door finally opened.

Luca stepped inside, still in yesterday’s clothes, reeking faintly of perfume that wasn’t hers.

“What are you throwing out?”

Serena flinched—barely—but straightened, tucking hair behind her ear. “Just some garbage.”

He walked over, glanced inside the box. Silk dresses, jewels, and cufflinks he had tossed at her like bribes.

“You call these… garbage?”

“Old gifts. Old clothes,” she said lightly. “They take up space. I thought I’d donate them under your name—the orphans on the hill could use them. Might even buy you some goodwill.”

At that, his lips curved faintly. “Always thinking ahead.”

But she knew better. He hadn’t believed her excuse; he simply didn’t care enough to dig deeper.

Suddenly, the sound of shattering glass cracked the air.

Serena spun around.

Isabella stood near the shelf, wide-eyed, a Venetian glass vase in shards at her feet. Her expression was pure innocence, the kind that deceived even devils.

“Oops… sorry, Luca, Serena. I didn’t mean to.”

Luca didn’t glance at Serena. He rushed straight to Isabella, brushing past his wife as if she were invisible. His hands hovered over Isabella’s arms, checking for cuts.

“Are you hurt?” His voice softened, stripped of its usual edge.

Seeing no injury, he sighed in relief. “It’s fine. Nothing matters more than you.”

But Isabella wasn’t finished. Her eyes slid toward Serena, coy, testing. “You don’t mind, do you, cousin?”

Serena’s gaze dropped to the shards on the floor.

That vase had been one of a kind—commissioned after their trip to Venice, the only piece etched with both her and Luca’s initials entwined. Now, it was rubble.

Once, she might have cried, demanded justice.

Now, she only lifted her chin and said evenly, “It’s fine.”

A flicker passed across Isabella’s face before she smiled sweetly. “You’re always so generous.” Then, turning back to Luca: “With a cousin like that, I’m sure she won’t mind if I ask one more thing.”

He didn’t even look at Serena when he spoke.

“Isabella’s just back from Florence. The Caruso house is empty, and she hates staying alone. She’ll live here for now. Your room faces the sun. She’s always been sensitive to the cold. Move your things.”