In the dim, cramped car, the man in the driver's seat never turned to look at me. I thanked him profusely, but he remained silent.

Just as I was getting out, I heard him speak.

"Francesca, away from Salvatore, there's a whole world waiting for you."

"If you make up your mind, call me anytime."

A black, gold-embossed business card was passed to me. I took it with both hands, thanking him again. But my mind was entirely on my mother. I shoved it in my pocket without a second glance.

I stumbled into the emergency room, and before I could even speak, I saw nurses pushing a gurney out of the operating room, a white sheet covering a body.

"Has Sophia's family arrived yet?"

"Well, she's dead now. No point in them coming."

The nurses’ casual words pierced my heart. I rushed forward and threw back the sheet. My mother's once-beautiful face was a mess of bruises, her body riddled with bullet holes.

For the last eight years, I had resented my mother every single day. I'd even had vicious thoughts of all of us dying together. But now, seeing her truly dead in front of me, all I felt was a crushing ache.

I sat by my father's bedside for a while, told him about my mother, and told him about my decision. I talked until dawn. Before I left, I looked at my father, who hadn't moved or responded in eight years, and whispered through my tears, "Dad, I'm so tired."

The next morning, my mother's body was cremated. I packed her photos into my bag and went home.

I also brought home the divorce papers my lawyer had drawn up.

As I walked in, I saw Salvatore laughing and chatting with his seven "flowers" at the dining table.

"Sign it," I said coldly, slamming the papers down on the table.

"So you snuck out all night just to get this?" Salvatore’s face darkened. "Francesca, you're really pushing it!"

I clutched the photos to my chest, my head bowed. "Salvatore, let's just let each other go. I don't love you anymore."

For eight years, I had thrown tantrums, I had cried, I had begged, I had even tried to kill myself. Through most of it, I held onto a sliver of hope that Salvatore would forgive me, that we could go back to how we were. I played the part of the perfect wife during the day, and at night, I used every trick I knew to please him in bed.

But then the women started moving in, one after another, and my heart slowly died. The tricks I used to please him became my shame, and his weapons to humiliate me.

"Sister, what's this you dropped... Domenico Lucchese?"

Carmela picked up the business card that had fallen from my pocket and read the name aloud.

Domenico. The name hit me like a physical blow. Salvatore’s lifelong rival. The man in New York he’d never even met but hated with a vengeance.

The next second, a stinging slap from Salvatore sent my head ringing.

"You say you don't love me because you found someone else?! And it had to be fucking Domenico Lucchese? You know he's the one person I hate most in this world!"

My ears were buzzing, and I stumbled, the photos in my arms scattering across the floor. Staring at the images of my mother fluttering through the air, I froze.

I instinctively dropped to my knees, trying to gather them.

Carmela stepped forward, her high heel grinding viciously onto my hand, pinning it to the floor.

A sharp, shooting pain made me cry out.

The other women, taking their cue, joined in. One stepped on my other hand, another on my mother's portrait, grinding her heel until the face in the photograph was obliterated.

A raw scream tore from my throat.

Something inside me snapped. I went feral, grabbing a crystal vase and smashing it over Carmela's head.

Salvatore didn't even have time to react. Carmela was already on the ground, clutching her head.

"Salvatore... it hurts so much."

Someone called an ambulance. Salvatore dragged me to the hospital and forced me to wait.

"If she dies, you're going with her."

That day, I was forced to give Carmela blood. Over and over again, until the doctors themselves said I couldn't give anymore. Only then did Salvatore let me go. He said I had brought this on myself.

I spent the next few days hiding in my father's hospital room.

"So here you are! Thanks to that little stunt, Salvatore just bought me two luxury condos." Carmela, oozing with newfound arrogance, sauntered in.

"Is this your old man? Why isn't he moving?" She poked at my father's oxygen tube, feigning curiosity.

"Don't touch that!" I shoved her away. She staggered back, clutching her head.

The next second, she lunged forward and ripped the oxygen tube from my father's face, dangling it playfully in her hand.

"Do you think Salvatore will blame me for this?"

Just then, Salvatore walked in.

He froze, his eyes darting between me, Carmela, and the blaring medical alarms.

After a long pause, he finally spoke.

"Carmela is young, she doesn't know any better. Your father was a lost cause anyway. It's a mercy, really. I'll buy you some more bags."

The alarms screamed on, each beep a declaration of my father's death. I stood there, numb. Beyond the grief, there was a strange sense of release.

Salvatore didn't spare me another glance. He just scooped up Carmela and left.

I collapsed on the floor, whispering apologies to my father, no longer knowing what I was holding on for.

I pulled out the business card and dialed the number.

"Mr. Lucchese... tonight... please, take me away."

Another cremation. I went through it all again. This time, I left my father's ashes in a niche at the mausoleum.

When I returned to the Genovese estate, Salvatore wasn't back yet. The seven "flowers" buzzed around me, telling me Salvatore was furious, that I was finished.

I ignored them. They persisted, asking if I was really going through with the divorce.

I didn't answer. I just opened the door to my room.

"Take your pick. Everything in here is yours."

The words were barely out of my mouth before they swarmed in like vultures, stripping the room bare in minutes. All that was left were a few old love letters Salvatore and I had written to each other as teenagers, now trampled and ignored on the floor.

I locked myself in the empty room and stayed there.

Later, Salvatore sent a maid to check on me. I just had her deliver the divorce papers again.

"Divorce again. Is this the ninetieth time, Francesca? Aren't you tired of this game?"

Salvatore tore the papers to shreds.

"Cut her heat. When she's ready to be sensible, you can let her out."

Salvatore thought my threats of divorce were fake. He thought my claim of not loving him was fake.

But love can be exhausted.

Eight years. I couldn't love him anymore. I had loved him until I was unrecognizable, until I had nothing left. What was there to hold on to?

That night, I slipped out the back door and got into Domenico's car.

The next morning, Salvatore came downstairs and didn't see me bustling in the kitchen. There was no coffee, no croissants. His suit wasn't laid out, perfectly pressed.

He stormed upstairs and threw open my door, only to find the room completely empty. He spotted a crumpled letter on the floor, written in a familiar hand, and his own hands began to tremble.

"Maria! Where's Francesca?!"

The maid hurried over, a rag still in her hand. She glanced at the empty room and shook her head.

"I'll call her mother."

Maria stared at him. "Sir... isn't Francesca's mother... dead? The cremation was two days ago."

Salvatore's mind flashed back to the image of me clutching those photos. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. He bent down and picked up a trampled photograph from the floor. His pupils were wide, unfocused. It was as if all the life had been sucked out of him, leaving only an empty shell.

For eight years, it had never once occurred to him that Francesca would actually leave.