When My Fiancé Don Posed With My Sister, I Left

That afternoon, I drove to the Morretti estate.

In my bag: his keys, his credit card, the clothes he’d left at my place.

The butler smiled. “Miss Vittoria, I’ll tell Don Lorenzo—”

“No need.” I handed him the bag. “Please give him this.”

I turned to leave. At the top of the stairs, I caught Lorenzo’s voice and slowed.

“Saturday—I’ll take you to testdrive that new car?”

My fingers curled.

His laugh drifted through the halfopen door. “I know, I know—you want to go for a spin. I’ll make it work. Your sister—I’ll deal with her.”

I laughed bitterly. Even now, I still hoped.

We’d planned to finally take that trip to the Alps to see the first snow—something he’d promised three winters ago. We’d scheduled it for this Saturday. And now he was pushing it aside for Serafina.

I didn’t stay. I walked down the stairs and out.

I drove straight to the old family house in Tuscany.

The next day, while I was clearing out boxes, Mrs. Rossi, our old housekeeper, found me.

“Vittoria, take a rest.”

I shook my head, almost done.

She took my hand and patted it. “All these years... you’ve been a good sister.”

She sighed, as if turning over a longkept thought. “Serafina was adopted, but you treated her like blood—gave her everything. She always had a taste for taking what was yours...”

She wiped her eyes. “We all saw it, but we didn’t dare speak. But now you’re marrying a Don—you’ve made it.”

I smiled and didn’t answer.

After a moment, I said, “Mrs. Rossi, you should move into this house. It’ll fall apart without anyone in it.”

She blinked. “But you’ll come back—for holidays, visits.”

I said yes, but insisted she take it. She thought I was being polite.

I didn’t explain. I just thought: I don’t know when I’ll be back.

That evening, Lorenzo came to visit my uncle, the current Don of the Corleone family, as custom demanded before the wedding. Serafina trailed behind him, smiling.

When they saw me, both looked surprised.

“Vittoria—what are you doing here?”

His tone suggested I shouldn’t be there. But I was the bride—it was my own family home. Oh, right: he’d grown used to my absence; Serafina’s presence was enough.

Serafina looped her arm through mine. “Sister, perfect timing—Lorenzo came to pay respects, and I tagged along.”

I didn’t reply. Serafina hated this old house, rarely visited. But now she came willingly—for me, or for something else? It didn’t matter.

In the sitting room, my uncle exchanged pleasantries with Lorenzo. Serafina sat beside him, handing him cigars, chiming in. I might as well have been a chair.

I glanced at my phone. Lorenzo had texted: “I’ve been busy with wedding prep and neglected you. But why didn’t you tell me you were coming here?”

Neglect. Like I was the one out of line for wandering off.

He was always active in the group chat, rarely privatemessaging me. Never asked: “Have you eaten? What are you doing? Are you happy?” He didn’t know I’d been to his estate, or to my hometown. He didn’t know because he never asked.

I typed back two words: You’re busy.

At the end of the visit, my uncle stood to see them off. He reminded Lorenzo: “Per our family tradition, the couple can’t meet three days before the wedding. Don’t see Vittoria until then—for good luck.”

Lorenzo nodded.

My uncle turned to me: “Vittoria, go back with them now. After the wedding, you’ll return here for the family blessing.”

I wanted to say no, but his hopeful eyes made me swallow it.

I went to get my suitcase. When I came out to the courtyard, Lorenzo’s car was already gone.

I stood there for two seconds, then checked my phone. A message from Lorenzo: “Serafina wanted to see the wedding venue right away, so I took her first. Forgot you were there—get back on your own.”

Forgot. I laughed into the air. I wasn’t even worth remembering or waiting for.

I walked to the corner and hailed a cab. “The airport, please.”

In the back seat, I opened my camera roll to our engagement photo. I was in a cream dress, standing beside him. His hand was on my waist; his eyes held a warmth I’d once believed.

I stared at it for a long time. Then my thumb hovered over Delete, and I pressed it.

The wind blew through the window, making my eyes sting, but no tears came. All the years of retreat and hurt had accumulated until this moment—and now they felt weightless.

I deleted our entire chat history. Left the wedding group. The Tuscan fields scrolled past like the last fifteen years of my life receding.

I leaned back and closed my eyes. That’s it. I don’t want the title of Don’s wife. I don’t want Lorenzo.