When My Fiancé Don Posed With My Sister, I Left

While I was packing, Serafina videocalled me.

I answered. On her screen, someone was draping jewels around her neck.

“Sister, you’re so slow—you haven’t chosen the wedding jewelry yet, so I’m trying some on for you!”

I watched her preen in the mirror. I wanted to say: Two weeks ago, I told you I’d wear Mother’s set. Or: Did anyone ever ask what I wanted? But the words died.

I’d asked. I’d been unhappy. I’d stood my ground. But they always said: “You’re the eldest daughter of the Corleone family—you should be generous with your sister.”

Lorenzo, my fiancé, always took her side. When our families first arranged the match, he said he admired my quiet steadiness—that I’d be a perfect Don’s wife. But whenever Serafina was around, he’d pivot, saying the Don’s wife needed to be sparkling and everpresent.

One time I said, “Could you not be so close to Serafina?”

He laughed and patted my hand. “She’s your sister. You want me to treat her like a stranger?”

I fell silent. Of course not. From childhood, I was told it was my duty as the elder to look after her. That burden had pressed on me for years, and for the first time, I couldn’t breathe.

They forgot I was only two years older.

I also wanted someone to ask, “Do you like this?”

A sliver of afternoon light fell across the oak floor. I remembered picking up scattered toys after every game, alone, while Lorenzo and Serafina ran off. No one ever helped. No one ever asked if I was tired.

I called my landlord and said I was moving out today.

He paused. “Really? You’ve been here four years.”

Four years—since Lorenzo and I got engaged. He’d wanted me to move into the Morretti estate, but Serafina said it was improper before the wedding. I agreed, keeping this place near his headquarters so we could see each other. He came sometimes. There were memories—good, bad, silent—and too many hurried exits.

“Yes, today,” I said. He sighed and told me to leave the keys in the mailbox.

Not long after, the door swung open. Lorenzo and Serafina walked in.

Serafina turned to him, laughing: “So the master suite with the terrace is mine, right? But I want to change the curtains to dark green velvet!”

I stood in the middle of the living room, wondering if I’d heard wrong. She spoke as if sharing our bridal suite was the most natural thing.

Lorenzo smiled indulgently. “As long as your sister’s fine with it.”

“Of course she is—she loves me.”

I opened my mouth. “What if I’m not fine with it?”

Two seconds of silence.

Serafina blinked—perhaps the first time I’d ever refused her. Before she spoke, her eyes reddened.

Lorenzo’s voice went hard. “Vittoria, what’s gotten into you? You’ve always given her everything—now you begrudge a room?”

“I’m not begrudging,” I said.

“Then what?” He frowned. “Serafina living with us—she’s family. Our suite is huge; it’ll be empty otherwise.”

“It’s our bridal suite,” I said. “If she moves in, is she the one marrying you?”

Lorenzo choked.

Serafina whispered, “Sister... I just wanted to be close to you. If you don’t want me, I won’t move.”

Lorenzo glanced at her. “Look what you’ve done. She’s a young woman, your sister—can’t you think of her feelings?”

“Who thinks of mine?” I lifted my head. “You’ve given her every opportunity, she wants for nothing. All I have left is—”

“Enough!” Lorenzo stepped forward. “Be reasonable. She’s your sister, and I only care for her because of you. Don’t be petty.”

Petty. I laughed and said nothing.

Serafina tugged his sleeve. “Lorenzo, stop—sister’s probably in a bad mood.”

He softened, patted her hand. “Vittoria, it’s settled. Serafina moving in is a good thing—you two won’t be apart.”

I nodded. Fine. That estate was their home anyway—I wouldn’t be living there.

Lorenzo exhaled. Serafina wiped her eyes and smiled at him.

I went back to packing.

Behind me, her voice floated: “So I really can change the curtains to green velvet?”

Lorenzo laughed: “Of course.”