Left for Dead by the Mafia King I Loved Chapter 2

If it hadn’t been for the necklace around my throat—the one Isla gave me—I would’ve died right there, soaking in my own blood on a cracked concrete floor.

The necklace wasn’t just jewelry. It was a tracker. A squeeze on the charm, and the signal would ping the other end—an unspoken SOS between sisters.

We’d made a pact, Isla and I. If one of us pressed it, it meant we were in trouble. The kind of trouble no one else could help with.

I had just enough strength left to squeeze it before the world turned black.

The next thing I remember was being shaken—gently, urgently.

“Serena. Serena, stay with me.” Isla.

She was kneeling beside me, tears streaking down her cheeks, using the hem of her dress to try and stop the bleeding. Her hands were covered in my blood, but she never stopped pressing. Never stopped talking.

“Hang in there,” she whispered, even as her voice cracked. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Somehow—God knows how—she lifted me. Isla, my always-delicate sister, who could barely carry a suitcase without swearing.

But that night, she carried me.

She got me into her car. Slammed the door. Hit the gas.

“Don’t close your eyes,” she snapped, glancing at me over and over. “Press on your wound. Keep pressure. Stay conscious.”

I tried. I really did. But my arms were weak, and my eyes felt like stone.

“If I don’t make it,” I mumbled, trying to smile, “make sure my tomb’s pretty, alright? You know I like things… beautiful.”

“Don’t you dare,” Isla hissed. “Don’t you fucking dare say things like that. You’re staying. Do you hear me, Serena? You. Are. Staying.”

That’s when the brakes failed.

I heard the panic in her voice before the impact hit. “The brakes—shit—they’re not working!”

Metal screamed as we slammed into a wall. The world jerked. Isla’s head hit the steering wheel hard—and she went limp.

I tried my best to reach for Isla’s phone and dial the only person left who might give a damn.

Adam Moretti. Her husband. My nephew-in-law.

Our last possible hope.

The line connected. And before I could say a word, his voice cut through—loud, angry.

“For fuck’s sake, Isla! Can you leave me the hell alone for one minute? I told you—I’m dealing with something!”

Then a woman’s voice in the background.

The call dropped. Just like that.

It was just me and Isla. Me bleeding. Her unconscious. And no Morettis giving a damn.

It could’ve ended there. Should’ve, maybe.

But fate had one more surprise.

A car pulled over.

A stranger. Kind, fast, maybe just too curious for his own good. He saw the wreck, saw us who looked more dead than alive—and he acted.

He got us to the hospital. He saved us.

…

The hospital room was too quiet. The kind of quiet where even the IV drip sounded like a ticking bomb. Each drop echoing the truth neither of us wanted to speak.

Isla had finally woken up. Her face was pale, her eyes rimmed red.

I told her what happened, about the kidnapping and Rafe. But most of all, I told her about Adam’s callous, arrogant response.

To my surprise, Isla didn’t look stunned. Not even a flicker. Instead, she just let out a bitter little smile and whispered, “Adam and I… we’ve been going through some rough things lately.”

I felt sad for my little sister.

If I hadn’t introduced her to Adam and dragged her into the Moretti mess…

Maybe she’d still have a husband who gave a damn. And we wouldn’t both be punished for marrying into this family.

“I shouldn’t have introduced you to him,” I whispered. “I didn’t think he’d—”

“Sis,” Isla cut in gently, squeezing my hand tight. “It’s not your fault. Ever since I lost the baby… Adam’s been different. Cold. Detached. But none of it is on you.”

Before I could respond, her phone rang.

I nodded. “Put it on speaker.”

She hesitated, then answered. “Hey, Adam.”

“What the hell do you want, Isla?” His voice roared through the speaker, so loud the nurse passing outside flinched. “Didn’t I say I was in the middle of something? And now my uncle tells me Serena keeps calling him too? Jesus Christ.”

Then came the venom.

“Is this some Valez sister hobby? Interrupting other people’s lives for attention? Tell your sister to drop the act. Stop using the baby excuse to get sympathy. My uncle’s already done with her melodrama.”

Isla stayed quiet. Too quiet.

“Adam,” Isla said calmly, “you’re my husband. I called because I needed you.”

“So what?” he snapped. “Because I married you, I am on call 24/7? I am not your houseboys. I’ve got actual businesses to run. The money you’re swimming in? The mansion? The pool? It doesn’t come from posting pretty pictures online. So maybe think twice before interrupting again.”

He paused—just long enough to cut deep.

“If it wasn’t bad enough dealing with a malfunctioning Serena, I don’t need you turning into her too, Isla.”

Then the call ended.

Silence.

Isla looked like she’d been slapped. Her face went pale, then paler. I reached across the sheets and wrapped my fingers around hers.

I whispered. “We’re getting out. I’m your sister. I’ll burn the Moretti name to the ground before I let them ruin us again. You hear me?”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she smiled anyway. “I never doubted you, sis.”

I forced a breath through my lungs. “Maybe this is God’s way of saying we’ve lingered too long in the Moretti world. But for now—rest. Heal. Then we fight.”

Isla nodded. “It’s already a blessing we survived. If it weren’t for that kind stranger… who knows where we’d be.”

She crumbled onto my shoulder, sobbing in silence. I held her tight. Let her cry. Let her fall apart because I knew—I knew—that I was right there with her. Beneath the surface, I was shattered too.

We were both grieving. For our bodies. Our babies. Our marriages. For the lie we’d built up around the Moretti name.

I used to think marrying into the Moretti family was a dream.

Two sisters. Two powerful men. Glamour. Power. Love.

But it had all been a trap.

There’d been a comment once—on one of my old Instagram posts, back when I used to romanticize our lives with cute captions and matching outfits.

"Hope you don’t regret marrying them. Men change."

At the time, I’d rolled my eyes. Thought they were just bitter.

But now? Now I knew.

Men do change.