I gave her a small, reassuring smile, trying to calm her fears.
"It's okay, Mamma," I said softly. "I trust my judgment. Nothing will happen."
The moment the words left my mouth, her composure shattered.
She started crying, the kind of raw, uncontrollable sobs that draw attention from across the room. Then, to my shock, she dropped to her knees right there in front of me, her hands clutching at my clothes as if she could physically stop me. Elisabetta Valente, wife of a Don, a woman who had survived decades of this life without ever bending in public, was on her knees. The soldiers along the walls looked away. Even the capos at the far tables went quiet.
"Please, Seraphina," she begged. "Don't do this. I'm begging you."
Her fingers closed white-knuckled around the crucifix at her neck.
Before I could respond, my father stormed over, his face dark with anger and confusion. Salvatore Valente, former head of the Commission of the Five Families. A man whose name once made other Dons choose their words with surgical care. The moment he saw my mother kneeling and the document in my hand, something inside him snapped.
He didn't hesitate.
His hand came down hard across my face, the sharp sound cutting through the gathering like a gunshot. My head snapped to the side, and for a moment, everything went silent. Not a glass moved. Not a chair shifted. The entire room held its breath because no one had ever seen Don Salvatore strike his own blood heir.
"You're a disgrace to the Valente name!" he roared, his voice filled with fury and disappointment.
Even then, even with the sting on my cheek and the weight of my parents' desperation pressing down on me, I didn't stop.
I signed.
The moment my signature was complete, Nico's grin spread across his face, wide and unmistakably satisfied. And then, right there, in front of everyone, he turned away from me and walked across the room.
He wrapped his arm around another woman.
She was young, polished, and confident, with sharp, calculating eyes and a smile that carried a quiet arrogance, as if she already knew she had won long before this moment. Two fingers rested lightly against the hollow of her throat. Without hesitation, she stepped forward and tossed a set of severance papers at me like it was nothing more than a party favor.
"Thanks for taking care of Nico and the kids all these years," she said lightly, her tone dripping with mock politeness. "But it's time for you to go. It's time for our family to be whole again."
I looked at her, my expression calm, almost eerily so.
"Okay," I said.
But inside, everything shattered.
This woman, Giada Sorrentino, wasn't a stranger. She worked as a bookkeeper in one of the Family's front businesses. Smart, ambitious, always composed, always knowing exactly how to position herself to win. She had a reputation for being sharp, capable, and just a little too good at playing the game. She had access to the ledgers, the accounts, the supply chains. Everything that ran through the Valente organization's legitimate side passed through her hands at some point.
A total bitch in disguise.
And now I understood just how far her game had gone. She hadn't just been playing for a better position in the organization. She had been building a life behind my back, piece by piece, right under my nose.
My voice cut through the silence, sharp and trembling with disbelief.
"So, you've been screwing around with Giada this whole time?!"
Giada didn't flinch. Instead, she smiled as if I had just paid her a compliment.
"Oh, come on, Seraphina," she said, almost playfully. "Don't be mad. If you really loved Nico, you'd want what's best for him, wouldn't you? Even if that means stepping aside."
Nico let out an impatient scoff, clearly annoyed by the delay.
"Hurry up and sign the papers already," he said coldly. "Stop dragging this out."
I looked at him then, really looked at him, and suddenly, the man standing in front of me blurred, replaced by the boy he used to be.
The nobody from a dirt-poor fishing village in Southern Italy. The one who was too proud, too ashamed to ask anyone for help. I remembered how he used to sit alone in the back rooms of the social club my father let him sweep, eating stale bread because it was all he could afford. His hair had been dry and brittle, his face pale, his shoulders hunched under the weight of hunger and quiet humiliation. A kid with shirt cuffs too short, always tugging them down over his wrists.
I remembered the day he collapsed during a pickup game behind the compound.
Everyone else froze, unsure what to do.
I was the one who ran to him. I carried him to the Family doctor myself, refusing to leave his side. That was the moment I truly understood how bad things were for him. From then on, I made sure he never went hungry again. I paid for his meals, helped him get back on his feet, stood beside him when he had nothing. My father, Don Salvatore, took pity on him because I asked. Brought him in as a low-level associate. Gave him a name that meant something.
And somewhere along the way, we fell in love.
Or at least, I thought we did.
And Giada?
