Bianca's Pov
Pain was the first thing I felt when I woke up. It spread from my side, sharp enough to make me suck in a breath, then settled into a dull ache that refused to leave.
My hand stung faintly, the burned skin tight and sensitive, and for a moment I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, not moving.
Then everything came back. The fire, the burned paintings, Dante's disregard for Master D'Angelo, and most of all my dead child.
My fingers curled slightly against the rug as my chest tightened.
I turned my head but no one was there. No one was checking up on me, not even a glass of water was laid out for me. I still remained in the same spot where Celia had knocked me out.
Slowly, I pushed myself up, my body protesting immediately as a sharp pain shot through my ribs. I sucked in a breath, steadying myself until the dizziness passed, then swung my legs over the side of the bed.
The floor felt cold beneath my feet.
As I stepped out of the room, faint voices of the household staff drifted in from down the hallway. The Falcone estate was never truly quiet. Even at rest it hummed with the low activity of people whose job was to see nothing and say less.
I didn't intend to listen, but my feet slowed on their own as the words became clearer.
"…Signora Celia said her foot hurt badly after she kicked Signora Bianca. The Don didn't even hesitate, he carried her out himself."
"That's expected. He looked so worried, like something serious had happened."
"And Signora Bianca?"
There was a brief pause before someone responded, with a dismissive tone.
"She fainted, didn't she? But no one called the family physician. The Don doesn't care about her."
A soft chuckle followed.
"Compared to Signora Celia, she doesn't matter."
I stood there quietly, listening without reacting. The words should have hurt, but they didn't. There was no anger, no tears, just a strange emptiness that spread through me, like something inside me had already shut down.
After a moment, I turned and walked away as if I hadn't heard anything at all.
When I returned to the bedroom, I didn't hesitate. I went straight to the wardrobe and pulled it open.
Rows of neatly arranged clothes stared back at me, each one carefully selected, carefully bought, carefully given. Most of them were from Dante. The clothes he said suited me. The jewelry he claimed reminded him of me. Shoes he insisted I needed even when I said I didn't.
At the time, I thought they were gestures of love. Now, they felt like proof of how blind I had been.
I reached out and picked one. My fingers brushed against the fabric briefly before I folded it neatly and placed it into a box. Then I picked another. Everything he had given me, I separated without hesitation, stacking them carefully as if they still held value, even though they meant nothing to me anymore.
Once I was done, I called out to one of the household staff.
"Arrange for these items to be picked up," I said calmly. "Send some to the orphanage and the rest to the church welfare home."
"Yes, Signora."
I turned back to the wardrobe. This time, I focused on my own things. I packed them into a suitcase. Soon, I'll be out of here.
As I sorted through the lower drawer, my hand paused when my fingers brushed against something hidden beneath a stack of documents. I pulled it out and found a thin envelope that was easy to miss. At first, I opened it without much thought, but as I began to read, my breathing slowed.
Then stopped.
It was a legal document. A letter of forgiveness.
I read it again, more carefully this time, forcing myself to take in every word.
It detailed the staged traffic hit that killed Master D'Angelo. The perpetrator had been identified. The case had been settled quietly, the way the families always settle things. And according to the document, I had signed it myself and agreed to forgive her.
My fingers tightened around the paper. The name written there was Celia.
For a moment, my mind refused to process it. That wasn't possible. Dante had told me the culprit was never found. He had looked me in the eyes and said he would make sure the person responsible paid for it.
I kept reading, my eyes scanning downward until they stopped at the bottom of the page.
My name and signature were there. My chest tightened sharply as my grip on the paper trembled.
I didn't sign this. I was certain of it. I didn't even know Celia was the one who caused the hit, so how could I have forgiven her?
Then suddenly, it clicked.
The island.
The gift Dante had said he prepared for me.
"Just sign here," he had told me with a soft smile. "It's yours."
I hadn't questioned it. I hadn't read it properly. I had trusted him enough to sign without thinking.
A quiet, bitter laugh slipped out before I could stop it.
So that was how he did it. He didn't just hide the truth from me. He used me to bury it.
I could still hear his voice from that day, clear and steady in my mind.
"I will find the person responsible."
I had been standing beside him, crying, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping me together.
"I promise you, Bianca. I won't let them get away with this."
I had believed him completely. Now I understood how wrong I had been.
The culprit had never been missing. She had always been here, living in the same house, standing right beside him, protected by him. And he knew. He had always known.
A surge of anger rose in my chest, stronger than anything I had felt since waking up.
For a moment, I wanted to walk straight out of the house, drag Celia outside, and take her to the cops myself. Let the Falcone name deal with the heat.
I wanted to see her lose everything the same way she had taken everything from me.
But the impulse faded just as quickly as it came.
No, not yet.
My fingers drifted to the pale mark where my wedding ring used to sit. I held there for a breath, feeling the smooth, bare skin. Then I forced my hand away.
I took out my phone and carefully took pictures of every page of the document. Then I made a copy, ensuring everything matched perfectly before placing the original back exactly where I had found it.
Nothing out of place. Nothing that would make them suspicious.
I had just returned to packing when the door opened and Dante's voice broke the silence.
"What are you doing?"
I didn't turn immediately. I folded the clothes in my hand calmly before placing them into the box, then looked up at him.
"These are too old," I said evenly. "I can't use them anymore, so I'm giving them away. Some to the orphanage, some to the church welfare home."
He stepped further into the room, glancing at the boxes, his brows knitting slightly in confusion.
"You're getting rid of all of this?"
"I don't need them," I replied.
He watched me for a moment before nodding, though there was still something uncertain in his expression.
"That's… fine," he said, then after a pause, he added, "About what happened earlier… Celia didn't do it on purpose."
I stilled for a fraction of a second. Even now this was what he chose to say.
"She thought you were going to hit me," he continued, his tone firm. "You know how she is. She reacts without thinking."
I nodded slowly, keeping my expression neutral.
"I understand," I said.
The words came out smooth, without resistance, as if I truly meant them.
Dante seemed to relax slightly at my response, clearly satisfied.
"I knew you would," he said.
I didn't reply. Instead, I reached into the drawer and took out the alliance severance papers.
Then I walked over and handed them to him.
"Sign this."
He glanced at it briefly, not even bothering to read the contents.
"What is it?"
"I want to commission a piece," I said calmly. "A memorial for our dead child."
Something flickered across his face, but it didn't last.
"You can do whatever you want," he said. "But don't dwell on this too much. We'll have children again."
My fingers tightened slightly at his words, but my expression didn't change.
"Sign it," I repeated.
He nodded. He didn't even read it. He simply took the pen and signed his name.
Just like that, three years of marriage reduced to a signature he didn't even care to look at.
I took the document back, my grip steady. In my mind, the words formed clearly.
We will never have children again. We will never have a future.
Before I could say anything else, his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
"Celia," his voice softened instantly, "What's wrong? Your foot… I'm coming."
Without another word, he turned and left without hesitation.
I stood there for a long time, the signed paper in my hand, my suitcase half-packed beside me, then I smiled.
Very soon he will wish he had read the document.
