The Mafia Lord’s Wife Who Walked Away

Serena had long stopped expecting to share a bed with her husband.

Luca’s excuse was always the same—he couldn’t sleep with anyone beside him.

But she knew better. He just couldn’t sleep beside her.

When he told her to give Isabella her room, she didn’t argue. That alone seemed to throw him. He had probably prepared some slick justification, but she cut it short.

“Fine,” she said, her tone almost careless. “I’ll move my things out tonight.”

For a moment, his eyes flickered—something like hesitation—but Isabella slid her arm through his and cooed, “See? She understands.”

Serena turned away without answering. She crouched and wrapped her arms around a wooden crate packed with clothes and books, heavier than she should have attempted alone. Her heel slipped against the polished stone, and the corner of the crate smashed against her hand. The bones in her knuckles screamed. She collapsed to her knees, breath catching, pain radiating sharp and hot up her arm.

Neither Luca nor Isabella noticed. He was already listening to her chatter about her trip abroad, smiling faintly as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

Serena stayed crouched on the floor, her injured hand trembling against the weight, her lashes wet. It wasn’t the first time she had bled in silence, and it wouldn’t be the last.

By sunset, the halls of the villa were stripped of her. She had sent box after box out with the staff until nothing remained but bare furniture.

“You didn’t need to clear so much,” Luca remarked as he adjusted his cufflinks. “Isabella’s not staying forever. When she leaves, you’ll move back in. Why waste the effort?”

“They were old things,” Serena replied smoothly. “Dead weight. Better to clear them out.”

“You’ve never thrown anything away before.”

She only smiled faintly. “Sometimes you burn the old, so something new has room to grow.”

It was the truth, but not one he could ever understand.

Luca didn’t press. Instead, he changed the subject with a snap of finality. “There’s an auction tonight. Important faces will be there. You’ll come. Isabella, too.”

---

The auction house sat like a palace on the riverfront, guarded by black-suited men with guns under their jackets. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light over rows of velvet chairs. The air was rich with money and danger—politicians, bankers, dons, all gathered under one roof, trading both art and influence.

The host, a slick-tongued broker with too-bright eyes, hurried to greet them. “Mr. Romano, what an honor. Your seat is ready.”

He gestured toward a pair of chairs near the front. “And of course, a second seat—for your wife?”

The words fell like a blade.

Serena stood a step behind Luca, watching. Two women. One chair. His choice.

It wasn’t a surprise when his hand closed around Isabella’s. “This is Isabella Caruso. Don Caruso’s daughter.”

Recognition lit in the host’s eyes. “The Caruso princess. An honor.”

“And her?” the man asked, glancing toward Serena.

Luca’s expression didn’t flicker. “My operations officer. Handles logistics.”

The words were clean, precise—erasing her role as his wife without hesitation.

Serena felt the sting cut through her ribs, but her face remained calm, unreadable. She stood tall behind them, nothing more than a shadow.

They took their seats, gleaming under the light. She stayed behind, an ornament no one acknowledged.

The hall was too bright, too suffocating. A sudden spasm of pain tore through her abdomen, sharp and merciless. She pressed a hand against her side, her steps quickening as she slipped out toward the restroom—her chest heaving as though she were fleeing.