Those were the same words Lorenzo had spoken to me two years ago.
Back then, Bianca had been sent to prove herself on her first real job for the outfit, a night run down a coastal cliff road where the drop-off fell more than ten meters into the black rocks below. The story the Family wanted told was one of nerve, of a princess willing to bleed for the cause. But just before the run, Bianca had gone to Lorenzo with wet lashes and a trembling mouth and confessed, in that small helpless voice she wielded like a blade, that she was afraid of heights.
So that the job would not stall, so that the display of loyalty would look flawless to the men watching, Lorenzo did not hesitate. He had me dressed in Bianca's coat, my hair pinned back to match hers, and sent down that cliff road in her place. No rope. No man posted below. Nothing between me and the rocks but his word.
"Bianca swears the crew already set the nets at the bottom. Adriana, what are you standing there for?" he said, as if my hesitation were an insult to him personally.
"But, Lorenzo, I'm afraid of heights too." I trembled and clung to his arm, and he shook me off the way a man flicks ash from his sleeve, cold, without even the courtesy of looking at me.
He pressed closer, and there was that laugh, a half-beat too loud in the salt wind, his hand landing heavy on my shoulder as if the warmth of it could smother the doubt. "Funny. Five years and I never once noticed you were this difficult. Bianca shows up and suddenly you've developed a fear of heights? Is that it, Adriana? You just performing for me now?"
"But I really am afraid," I sobbed.
"Enough with your buts." His voice dropped, and the warmth drained out of it entirely, leaving only the flat authority he used on men who owed him money. "Let me tell you something, Adriana. I've weighed this. Every side of it. I know exactly what I'm doing." And with that, without a breath of hesitation, he sent me over the edge himself.
They never showed my face in the footage the Family passed around afterward. To this day the story survives untouched. Bianca's admirers across the allied houses still speak of her nerve, her devotion, how she never once used a body double or a stand-in to take the fall for her, because she was too proud, too committed to the life.
That single job made her one of the most beloved daughters in every bloodline that mattered. And me? After Lorenzo put me over that cliff with nothing to catch me, I shattered my right leg against the rocks and spent more than half a year laid up, healing in a safehouse infirmary where the ceiling never changed and no one came.
In all those months, Lorenzo darkened my door exactly once. Not for me. Bianca had been scratched by her pet, some shallow line across one finger, and he had brought her in to have it bandaged and cooed over. Her room sat directly beside mine, one thin wall between us. He never crossed my threshold. He was afraid, I later understood, that the dust of my sickroom might cling to his shoes.
Now, in the hush of his study with the grandfather clock ticking out the seconds like a slow trigger pull, Lorenzo had nothing to say. My words had walked him into a corner and closed the door, and for the first time in years I watched the great feared Capo sit there mute, the color of a man who cannot find his footing on ground he thought he owned.
I let the silence do its work. My fingers found the plain band on my ring finger, the one I had worn through every winter of this marriage no one was permitted to name, and I turned it once, slowly, feeling the worn gold move against my skin. Then I reached into my bag.
I drew out the papers I had prepared in advance, the pact of severance drawn up in careful language, and laid them on the low table between us, squaring them gently against the polished wood. My hand did not shake. My voice, when it came, was as level as still water.
"Lorenzo. Let's sever it. I want out."
