The Donna He Lost

I walked into the bridal studio with my wedding gown draped over my arms.

Four years as Bianca Marchello—fiancée of Enzo Marchello, heir to the most powerful mafia family in the city—and here I was, asking a seamstress to alter my wedding dress to another woman’s measurements.

“Are you sure about the size change?” the seamstress asked gently as she pinned the new bust line—smaller, narrower, perfect for Lucia Ricci.

“Yes.”

My voice didn’t tremble.

Today was the first step toward letting go.

By the time I walked out of the studio, the last thread of denial had already been cut.

The Marchello estate was warm when I returned.

The smell hit me before I reached the kitchen.

Butter. Garlic. Seared herbs.

Enzo never cooked for me. Not once in four years.

He hated kitchen smells, hated mess, hated the idea of smoke clinging to expensive suits.

But now?

There he was.

Enzo Marchello—my husband—standing at the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring a pan while Lucia Ricci sat at the marble counter, chin in hand, watching him like he’d hung the moon.

She laughed, soft and sweet.

He plated something for her, sliding it across the counter.

Lucia leaned in, blowing on the bite before tasting it.

He’d never cooked for me.

Not once.

When he finally noticed me at the doorway, his body stiffened.

“Bianca,” he said, voice unreadable, “you’re back early.”

Lucia smiled at me, all perfect lipstick and perfect composure.

“Oh, Bianca! Enzo insisted on cooking. It’s adorable, isn’t it?”

Adorable.

I swallowed hard enough to hurt.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t trust my voice.

One week ago—the day Enzo and I were supposed to register our marriage after four years together—he never showed up.

We had agreed to meet at the city hall at noon. I arrived early, clutching the documents we were meant to sign, rehearsing how I’d tease him for being late, how we’d finally make things official.

But instead of Enzo, I received a call:

there was an emergency at one of his underground casinos.

He had to “handle it personally.”

We would have to reschedule.

That evening, his assistant arrived with an apology gift—an obscenely expensive set of gemstone jewelry I didn’t need, wrapped in the Marchello family’s signature black box.

And yet, the very next morning, the headline on the news made my hands go cold:

“Mafia Heir Marchello Enzo Seen Shopping for Wedding Rings With His Fiancée.”

The photo showed his profile—familiar, unmistakable—

and the woman beside him was not me——Is Miss Ricci.

That was the moment I made my decision—I stopped clinging.

Since then, Enzo had suggested—twice—that we reschedule the registry appointment.

Each time, I pushed him off with an excuse.

Because the truth was simple:

I was done.

Our marriage had never been built on love.

It had started long before either of us had a choice.

My parents saved his parents’ lives years ago, throwing themselves between Don Marchello and a hail of bullets meant to end the Marchello bloodline. His parents survived, barely. And made a promise:

When I came of age, I would marry their son.

A debt repaid in flesh and future.

I grew up believing it meant destiny.

Enzo grew up treating it like duty.

But the missed registry appointment shattered whatever naïve hope I had left.

If he couldn’t show up for the one promise that tied us together…

there was nothing left worth saving.

So I kept walking past the kitchen, past Lucia’s playful teasing and Enzo’s quiet tension.

I didn’t look back.

In my bag, tucked between receipts and a lipstick I no longer wore, lay the altered wedding dress receipt.

I’d changed it to Lucia’s measurements.

Because it was time to give her what she’d already taken.

And it was time for me to finally take back my freedom.