The Mafia Lord’s Wife Who Walked Away

The chill of the marble floor seeped into Serena’s bones. At first, she thought it was just fatigue, the kind that came from standing too long in heels, smiling when her heart was bleeding dry. But then the cramps twisted deeper, sharp and merciless, until she was forced to steady herself against the sink.

She reached for the door. The handle refused to turn.

A shadow fell across the crack beneath the frame. Then Isabella’s voice drifted through—syrupy sweet, dripping with venom.

“Still clinging to that ring on your finger, cousin? You really think it means anything?”

Serena pressed her forehead against the wood, her breath uneven.

“Luca’s always belonged to me,” Isabella continued. “You were just the placeholder. A ghost keeping his bed warm until I returned. And you dare walk into tonight’s auction like you belong at his side?”

Pain cut through Serena’s abdomen. Her body trembled, but her words came sharp, low.

“If you want him so badly, take him. I won’t fight you for scraps.”

Isabella laughed, the sound sharp enough to draw blood.

“You think I’ll believe that? You’ve been obsessed since we were children. You’ve always wanted what wasn’t yours. First my father’s trust, now my man. You’re pathetic.”

There was a scrape as something heavy was dragged outside the door. A sign slammed against the wall: Vault Access – Restricted. No one would dare open it now.

“Stay here,” Isabella said coldly. “Freeze in the dark. No one’s coming.”

Her footsteps faded, leaving Serena trapped in silence.

The air grew colder by the hour. Serena sank to the floor, the cramps clawing through her body. She pounded the door once, twice—each strike weaker than the last.

“Help… someone…”

Her voice barely carried. The marble stole her heat, her strength. Finally, her body gave in, curling tight against the wall, eyes fluttering shut.

---

The auction ended hours later. Luca glanced once toward the corridor, brows faintly drawn. Serena hadn’t returned.

“Maybe she was upset,” Isabella murmured, looping her arm through his. Her eyes glistened with false guilt. “If I’d known sitting beside you would wound her pride, I never would’ve taken her place.”

“You’re Don Caruso’s daughter,” Luca replied, his tone dismissive. “She’s just staff. If she can’t handle her role, let her sulk. Maybe the lesson will do her good.”

Isabella lowered her gaze to hide her smile. You see, Serena? You’ll never matter more than I do.

That night, Luca went home with Isabella on his arm. He never once asked about his wife.

---

It wasn’t until dawn that a cleaning woman turned her master key in the restroom door.

She gasped at the sight: Serena, crumpled in the corner, silk dress damp, her skin pale as bone.

“Madam! Saints preserve us—how long have you been in here? You’re freezing!” The woman crouched, frantic. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

Serena stirred, lashes heavy, forcing herself upright against the wall. Her voice was hoarse but steady. “No. Thank you. I’ll manage.”

The pain in her body had dulled, leaving only exhaustion and cold.

For one foolish moment, she had believed Luca would come looking. But the night had passed, and he hadn’t even noticed her absence.

She remembered when Isabella once vanished for ten minutes at a party—Luca had ordered every soldier in the compound to search, nearly calling the police.

But for his wife? Nothing. Not a single word.

That was the difference between love and indifference.

Step by step, she left the hall and hailed a cab. At the exit, her confiscated phone was returned.

No messages from Luca. No missed calls.

But one number had lit her screen again and again. Unknown.

She pressed play on the last voicemail.

“Serena. I won’t give you thirty days. I’ve already put eyes on you. Seven nights—no more. If Luca Romano won’t protect you, I will. Willingly or not, you’ll be mine.”

Her grip tightened on the phone. A bitter smile curved her lips.

Even abandoned, she wasn’t unseen. Even discarded, someone was already moving through the city’s shadows for her.