I ended up staying at the clinic far longer than I ever expected.

Part of it was the broken ankle that still throbbed no matter how still I tried to be. But the real reason was simpler, quieter, and somehow more painful — there was no one waiting to take me home.

No one, except Lorenzo.

Lorenzo, who had once sat beside me in university lecture halls, back when we were both pretending the gravity of our families couldn't reach us there. Lorenzo, who had confessed his feelings years ago, only to be turned down gently because my heart already belonged to someone else. To Celia.

And somehow, now, he was the one holding my hand when the nights felt too long. He brought meals I could actually stomach — real food, not the clinic's institutional trays, but containers from a Marchetti-owned restaurant on Mulberry Street that appeared at my bedside without explanation. He stayed silent when I cried, never pressing, never demanding. He showed up without making me feel like I owed him something.

On the morning they told me I could finally leave, he wheeled me out to the small courtyard behind the clinic. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, warm and gentle. A Marchetti soldier stood at the gate, back turned, giving us privacy while making certain no one approached without permission. We sat without talking for a while, listening to the soft whisper of wind through branches.

"I wasn't joking before," Lorenzo said at last, watching me carefully. "You don't have to go back there. If you choose to leave… I'll help you start over."

I looked down at my hands.

They'd grown thinner. A little shaky. They looked like hands that had held on too long and finally loosened their grip.

"I need a few days," I said softly. "Five. I have things to fix… things to settle. After that, if you'll still have me… I'll go with you."

His smile was quiet and bittersweet. "I'll be right where you left me."

By the time I reached the estate, the sun was already high.

The world felt cruelly normal — bright light, passing cars, a groundskeeper trimming hedges along the perimeter wall — while a storm twisted tight in my chest.

The hospital cane knocked lightly against the flagstones as I limped toward the door. Every step sent a reminder through my body that I wasn't whole yet. No soldier met me at the entrance. No one had been told to watch for my arrival.

Choosing Lorenzo felt like stepping into the unknown.

But staying in a house where no one saw me at all felt worse.

I pushed the door open.

Laughter met me before anything else.

I froze where I stood.

In the living room, they were all there — Celia, Marco, Enzo… and Vera. Sitting casually, drinks in their hands, like nothing around them had ever broken. Vera leaned comfortably against Celia's shoulder, her head tilted toward him. The afternoon light caught on cut crystal glasses and the low gleam of Celia's cufflinks.

My husband.

My sister.

My brothers.

All together.

All at ease.

Their faces shifted the second they saw me.

"Oh," Celia said, blinking like he'd forgotten I existed. "Right… you're home today. How are you feeling?"

Forgot. He'd forgotten.

The urge to laugh rose up sharp and ugly in my throat. None of them had bothered to see me once. I had been lying in a Marchetti clinic for days, and not a single Valente soldier had been sent to check, not a single Carbone car had pulled up to the entrance.

Before I could speak, Vera was already on her feet, moving toward me with a bright, practiced smile.

"Sera," she said sweetly. "I missed you. I'm so sorry we didn't come visit… I've just been so unwell. But I'm doing better now. What about you? Are you okay?"

I stepped back without thinking. My skin crawled.

"I'm not fine," I said flatly.

Her smile flickered. Confusion crossed her face before she reached out to touch me again.

"Seraphina—"

I shoved her hand away.

"Don't put your hands on me."

Enzo was on his feet in a second.

"What's wrong with you?" he snapped. "You know she's fragile right now."

Marco followed him. "She's been suffering. You don't get to act like this."

My voice broke through the room, sharper than I felt.

"And what about me? I was in the hospital. I was hit by a truck."

Celia sighed like I'd inconvenienced him.

"That was your fault," he said. "You ran into the road. But Vera… she has cancer. She's not like you."

"I'm still her sister," Vera said softly, eyes shining like glass. Her fingers drifted to the inside of her left wrist, pressing lightly against the pulse point. "We're both hurting. We should be supporting each other, not fighting…"

I shook my head.

"I was hurting too," I said. "But none of you came. Not once. I lost my baby and—"

Vera staggered suddenly, a hand flying to her stomach.

"Oh my god," Enzo breathed, rushing to her side. "She's getting sick again."

They moved instantly.

Celia caught her before she could fall.

Marco was already grabbing a towel.

Enzo rubbed her back softly like she'd shatter if he touched too hard.

And I stood there.

Unseen.

Unheard.

Invisible again.

They didn't even acknowledge what I'd just said. I thought about shouting it. Forcing them to listen. But the exhaustion in my bones told me what I already knew — I was fighting for space in a place that had never saved a seat for me. Not at this table. Not in this Family.

So I turned away.

I walked, slowly, painfully, toward the bedroom.

When I opened the door, I stopped breathing.

Everything that was mine… was gone.

My clothes.

My framed photos.

The small trinkets I'd carefully arranged.

All replaced.

Vera's perfume on the air. Her makeup spread across the dresser. Her dresses hanging neatly by the mirror. My things had been cleared out with the efficiency of a crew sanitizing a room after a hit — no trace left, nothing to prove I had ever existed in this space.

My hands shook so badly the cane nearly slipped from my fingers.

I stepped back — and she was standing there.

Vera.

Smiling.

Not the sweet, fragile smile she wore in front of others.

This one was sharp.

Honest.

Cruel.

"You know," she said lazily, tilting her head, "I really tried to be kind before. I did. But being kind never got me anything. While I was gone, you stepped right into my life. My place. My man. Even my brothers."

She stepped closer.

"I'm just taking back what was always mine. I should've done it five years ago."

There was no warmth in her eyes.

Only satisfaction.

She gave me a look filled with fake sympathy.

"Don't worry," she added lightly. "I'll give you a few days to sort yourself out. I'm not heartless. I'd hate for you to end up sleeping on the streets. That wouldn't look good for us."

I stared at her.

My voice was low. "Are you really sick?"

Her eyes narrowed at once.

"What do you think?"

But memories flashed through my mind — the way she used to fake fainting spells, clutching her head just to avoid obligations at the compound. The way she'd cry to our father about imaginary pain if it got her sympathy, got her excused from sitting through another interminable Sunday dinner with visiting capos.

"You think I'm pretending?" she said louder, enough to carry beyond the door.

I didn't answer.

I didn't have to.

Footsteps rushed down the hallway.

Marco and Enzo appeared.

"She's doing it again," Vera cried immediately. "She keeps saying I'm faking. She thinks my cancer isn't real."

Enzo's face hardened when he looked at me.

"You've always been poisonous," he spat. "No one ever liked you when we grew up. This is why."

Marco stepped forward.

He grabbed the chain at my neck and yanked.

The necklace fell into his hand — the pendant bearing the Carbone crest, the one he'd given me when we were teenagers. The one he said meant he'd always stand by me. My thumb had pressed against the hollow of my throat a thousand times to feel it there, and now there was nothing.

"You don't get to wear this anymore," he said coldly.

I didn't fight back.

I didn't cry.

I just stood there, feeling strangely empty.

One by one, they left.

And I slowly lowered myself to the floor, my side aching from standing too long, my ankle screaming in quiet protest.

I stayed quiet.

Because in a few days, I would be gone.

And when they realized what they'd done…

It would already be too late.

I was finishing up the last of my packing, smoothing folded clothes into a half-zipped suitcase, when the doorbell rang.

For a second, I paused. My heart jumped. Lorenzo?

I checked my phone. No missed calls. No messages. With a slow breath, I headed toward the front door.

A large white box rested neatly on the welcome mat, wrapped in a wide gold ribbon. It was heavy. Elegant. My name was written across the top in bold, flowing calligraphy. No card. No explanation.

Just my name.

Curiosity pulled at me as I carried it inside. I placed it on the table, sat down, and slowly lifted the lid.

My breath caught.

Inside was a wedding dress.

Not just any dress — my dress.

The exact style I had sketched years ago, back when I still believed Celia and I would stand before the Commission someday, swearing a real blood oath. Ivory silk that caught the light softly. Lace sleeves so fine and delicate they looked like they'd dissolve at a touch. I reached out, hands trembling, and brushed my fingers over the bodice.

A small tag had been stitched on the inside.

Seraphina — embroidered by hand in gold thread.

My vision blurred.

Was this real?

Was this… him?

For a heartbeat, my mind ran wild with dangerous hope. After all the distance. The coldness. The betrayal. Was this Celia's way of saying sorry? Was he finally ready to give me what he'd taken away — a true ceremony, a witnessed union, a name that meant something before the Families? Was he ready to make things right without saying a word?

I let myself believe it.

Just for a moment.

I stepped into the gown, careful and slow, holding my breath as the fabric fell against my skin like it had been waiting for me. It fit almost too perfectly. I turned toward the mirror, hands pressed against my chest, eyes shining with fragile, foolish hope.

That's when the door flew open.

"Seraphina, what the hell do you think you're doing?!"

I jumped.

Celia stood there, his face dark with anger and disbelief. He crossed the room in long strides and grabbed the fabric at my shoulder, yanking it away so roughly it almost tore.

"Why are you wearing that dress?"

"I—" My voice shook. "Isn't this… for me? My name is on it. It's the design I made. The one I dreamed of. I thought maybe… we were finally having a real ceremony?"

A sharp, humorless laugh left him.

"A ceremony? Have you lost your mind? We're already bound."

"Then why send this here?" I whispered, my throat tight.

"It's not for you," he snapped, brushing his hands over the fabric like he was cleaning it. "It's for Vera. She's always wanted a proper blood-oath ceremony. A real one, witnessed by the Families. We're giving her that. She deserves it. She's sick."

My body went cold.

"She's sick," he repeated, like that single sentence explained everything.

"She wants to walk down the aisle," he went on. "Wear the dress. Have the ceremony she was supposed to have five years ago. This was her dream."

"But it was mine too," I said quietly. "I designed it. That was my sketch. Why give her something that belonged to me?"

Voices came from behind him.

Marco and Enzo stepped into the room. The hallway beyond them was dim, the sconces along the estate corridor casting long shadows. One of the soldiers posted near the landing glanced in and looked away fast — men in this house knew when not to see things.

"What are you two shouting about?" Marco asked. His eyes landed on the dress and he scoffed. "Oh. That. Come on, Seraphina, you're not dying. Let her have it. If she likes your design, you can just make another one."

Enzo nodded like that settled everything.

"You always turn things into drama," he said. "Just let her have this one day. At least she deserves that much."

"She deserves… my dream?" The words barely came out.

Vera appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a soft shawl, playing the part of fragile perfectly. She leaned against the frame as though standing cost her something, one hand resting lightly against the inside of her left wrist.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, her voice trembling. "I just… I just want to be a bride. I want to walk down the aisle once before…" She stopped, letting the sentence hang. Her eyes filled with the same tears she'd used since we were children. "I won't take him from you forever. Just for a moment. Just let me borrow him."

I stared at her.

At all of them.

Something inside me went very still.

"You're all unbelievable," I said quietly.

Vera's lips trembled.

"Do whatever you want," I continued, my voice flat. "Have your ceremony. Take the dress. Use my design. Borrow my husband. Take everything. I'm done."

I turned and walked out.

My legs felt numb, but my chest burned like it was being carved open.

Back in my room, I opened drawers, closets, boxes. I pulled out shirts, photos, old letters — every piece of the girl I used to be. Every soft memory I'd guarded. I carried them outside one by one.

Behind the estate, past the garden wall where the soldiers never patrolled after dark, there was an old metal barrel.

I dropped it all inside.

And I lit the match.

Flames rose quickly, hungry and bright. Smoke twisted upward, carrying everything I'd once believed in. I watched the fire eat through photos of Celia and me, through handwritten love letters, through the old ceremony-dress sketches I thought I'd one day wear.

I remembered my brothers promising to protect me. I remembered believing I belonged there. I remembered Vera clinging to my arm, whispering that I was her favorite.

It was all a lie.

Every single bit of it.

And as the last fragile page of my sketchbook curled into ash, arms wrapped around me from behind.

"Sera…," Celia murmured. His voice was low, close, breath warm at my ear. "I'm sorry. I know this hurts. I didn't want things to go this far. Just… do this for her. She's sick. You're stronger than this. You can handle it."

I said nothing.

"Let me make it up to you," he whispered. "Tomorrow, just us. A proper date. I'll fix everything. I swear."

I was too tired to argue.

"…Fine," I said quietly.

His breath left in relief.

"Thank you," he said, pressing a soft kiss into my hair.

That night, I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to bury the ache in my chest.

But just as I began to drift—

"Seraphina! Get up!"

I sat upright, heart pounding.

Celia was at my bedside, eyes wide and urgent.

"We need your blood," he said quickly. "Your sister needs a transfusion. You're a match."

My throat went dry.

"What…?"

"She's deteriorating," he said, already grabbing my arm. "Don't make this difficult. Be useful for once. Be her blood bank."

"No." My voice came out steady as I pulled my arm back. "I'm not giving her my blood."

Celia's expression darkened immediately. "Don't do this again, Seraphina. She has leukemia. She needs transfusions. You're compatible."

"That isn't my problem," I replied, refusing to budge. "I'm not the only one barely holding it together."

Marco stepped closer, jaw tight. "How can you be this selfish? She's dying, Seraphina."

"She isn't dying," I shot back. "She's pretending, like she always did when we were kids just to avoid chores and homework."

Enzo raised his voice. "That's enough. You sound crazy."

Before I could react, hands were on my arms.

All of them.

I struggled. I kicked. I twisted. But I was still weak, still bruised, still exhausted, and there were three of them. They dragged me out of the compound like I didn't belong to myself anymore, shoved me into the back seat of the black sedan, and drove straight to the Marchetti-operated clinic on the East Side.

I barely had time to breathe.

Within an hour, I was strapped down.

No one asked for my consent.

No one listened when I begged them to stop.

Needles. Tubes. Bags filling with dark red liquid while the Family physician exchanged uneasy looks with the nurse at the number of vials being ordered.

The world tipped sideways.

And then everything went black.

When I woke up, I felt empty.

Like someone had scooped the life out of me and left the shell behind. My limbs were heavy. My chest felt cold. My head spun as my eyes adjusted to the light.

The first face I saw was the last one I ever wanted.

Vera.

She sat beside my bed, holding a small tray. The clinic room smelled of antiseptic and lilies she must have brought herself. Always staging.

"You're awake," she said softly. "I brought you something to eat."

For a split second, my heart almost believed her.

Then everything came rushing back.

I swiped the tray away. The plate hit the floor with a sharp crash.

The door flew open.

Celia. Enzo. Marco.

"What's wrong with you?" Marco barked. "She went through the trouble of bringing you food."

"You're unbelievable," Celia added. "She's trying to fix things and you act like this?"

"You forced me!" I shouted, my throat burning. "You held me down and took my blood!"

"Seraphina…" Vera murmured, her voice trembling. Her fingers drifted to the inside of her left wrist, pressing lightly against the pulse point. "Please don't be like this. You're my sister. I only wanted peace between us."

She stepped closer and leaned in as if to hug me.

Her lips brushed my ear.

"You see it now?" she whispered sweetly. "They've already chosen. So behave."

My body went still. Celia's stare turned sharp. "Apologize. Now."

My hands clenched the sheets. "I didn't do anything wrong."

Enzo stepped forward slightly. "Careful." My throat tightened.

"…Fine," I said quietly. "I'm sorry."

Not because I meant it.

Because I didn't have the strength to keep fighting.

They relaxed. Satisfied. Like they'd corrected something broken.

I closed my eyes and turned my face to the wall, pretending to sleep, pretending I couldn't hear Vera's soft fake crying or my brothers' murmured comfort.

I stayed that way until they finally left.

That night, my phone buzzed.

Lorenzo: Tomorrow's the day. Are you still in?

I stared at the screen and typed back.

Yes.

The following morning, I didn't want to leave the clinic.

My body still ached. My heart felt worse. Every part of me wanted to disappear.

But Celia didn't ask. He told me.

"We're doing this," he said coldly. "You owe it to Vera. You promised. Stop acting like a child."

So I went.

Not because I wanted to.

Because saying no only meant more yelling, more blame, more guilt shoved down my throat like bitter medicine.

I wore a soft, pale dress, the same one from our very first date. Back when I believed in things like forever. Back when he held my hand like it meant something. Back when I thought I mattered.

He said to meet him at a trattoria on neutral ground. Just us. To fix things. So I waited.

I arrived early. I wasn't sure if I hoped he'd show up… or if I hoped he wouldn't.

The waitress brought water.

Then came back. Then came back again. Minutes turned into an hour. Then another.

"I'll be waiting for someone," I told her with a small smile. "He should be here soon."

He wasn't. Neither were Marco or Enzo.

I checked my phone. Nothing.

The water got warm. The music changed. My back started to hurt from sitting too straight, for too long.

I kept looking at the door.

Maybe now. Maybe now. Then my phone vibrated.

Vera.

Of course.

Vera: Looks like they can't make it, sister. They're busy… with me. Enjoy your dinner alone.

Below the message were photos of them together. The four of them at the compound. Laughing. Vera at the center of the table, right where I used to sit.

Once, I would've cried. This time, I didn't.

I stood up calmly and called the manager over.

"I need to leave a few things here," I said.

From my bag, I placed a small bundle on the table.

A copy of our unsanctioned marriage papers, the documents that had never been sworn before witnesses, never recognized by anyone who mattered. The clinic report confirming the loss of my baby. The ring he'd given me five years ago.

"If he comes asking," I said quietly, "tell him Seraphina Carbone doesn't exist anymore."

My thumb pressed against the bare hollow of my throat where a pendant once hung. There was nothing there. There hadn't been for a long time.

I turned and walked out.

The bell above the door chimed once, clean and final.

Lorenzo was already waiting on the sidewalk.

Just like he promised.

A dark car idled at the curb behind him, engine running, one of his soldiers standing at attention by the rear door. Lorenzo ignored all of it. He stepped toward me and held out his hand.

"Ready?"

I nodded. "Completely."

He led me to the car, and we drove straight for the private airstrip the Marchetti family kept outside the city.

Inside the car, I looked at my phone. Old photos, old messages, names that no longer meant anything.

I opened the SIM tray. I removed it. I dropped it into the console bin.

Gone.

As I boarded the plane beside Lorenzo, a calm I hadn't felt in years settled into my chest.

Tomorrow, they might notice I'm gone. They might panic. They might search.

But they will never find me.

Never again.