The sight of them together made my stomach churn. Vittorio’s entire focus was on Valeria—the Don who ruled the Morrano syndicate like a tyrant now moving with tenderness, shielding her with his body, watching her every breath. He had not shown even a fraction of that care toward his own son in years. The comparison alone was enough to make my fingers shake with rage.
“So this is how you want it,” I said, forcing the words out through a tight throat. “You’ve been wishing I’d disappear for a long time, haven’t you? Good. Your wish just came true. I’m done. I’m walking out.”
He had never chosen me. Our marriage existed only because two crime families needed unity, because tradition demanded a bride for the Don. He stayed with me out of obligation, not love. In his eyes I was a duty stamped onto his life by old rules. He never acknowledged my place beside him, never nurtured the bond between us. Years of neglect had worn me down until even my own sense of self felt fragile, as if the part of me that once had strength was fading away.
The heirloom was the only thing that might have saved what was left of me. It was no trinket—it was a sacred relic handed down to the eldest child in my bloodline, entrusted to my care. I had always known what it could do, yet I had never dared to awaken its power. Every gift demands a price, and I was terrified of what that price might be.
Vittorio, as usual, twisted my words into something ugly. To him, I was nothing but a bitter wife desperate for his attention. His lip curled in contempt.
“Oh, come on,” he sneered. “Is this your latest performance? You can’t use the kid to guilt-trip me anymore, so now you’re putting on a show yourself?”
A year earlier, Luca had started to fade. His skin lost its color, he barely touched his food, and even the family doctor was baffled. Dark veins crept beneath his flesh, as though his blood were changing from the inside out. He would collapse without warning, over and over again. For a boy born into a dynasty known for its resilience, he couldn’t even shake off a simple headache.
During those endless months I had called Vittorio more times than I could count, begging the Don to come home—if not for me, then for the child who waited every night by the door. He never did. He convinced himself that I was exaggerating, that I was using Luca’s sickness to manipulate him.
After nearly a decade together, this was all I was to him.
I wiped my face and kept my voice even. “Think whatever you like. I’m still leaving.”
I turned, dragging my suitcase toward the exit, when Valeria’s voice floated after me, sugar-sweet with false sympathy.
“Don Vittorio, weren’t you planning to spend Luca’s birthday together?” she asked gently. “You didn’t cancel just to go to the mountains with me, did you? Bianca looks devastated…”
Vittorio answered her instantly, not a hint of hesitation in his tone.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I know my priorities. A birthday can be made up anytime. But the snow won’t last forever.”
A hollow laugh escaped my lips as I continued pulling my luggage across the floor. Something about my silence must have unsettled him, because he suddenly strode after me and clamped a hand around my wrist, irritation flaring across his face.
“It’s the middle of the night,” he barked. “You’re really choosing now to make a scene and leave?”
Then he noticed my swollen eyes and paused. His voice dropped, almost gentle.
“Is missing one celebration really enough to make you cry like this?”
For a heartbeat I thought I saw something close to sympathy in his gaze.
“I’ll clear my calendar next month,” he added. “I’ll take Luca out then. That should settle things.”
Next month.
What kind of next month was left for Luca?
If he had possessed even a shred of real concern, he would never have said something so cruel. I tore my hand free.
“There’s no need,” I replied flatly.
He stared at his empty hand in disbelief. The woman who had once endured everything in silence was now recoiling from him like he was poison. He stepped toward me again—only for Valeria to clutch his arm.
“This is all on me,” she said hastily, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Even though I knew Luca was just pretending to be sick, I shouldn’t have tried to compete with a child for your attention. Now Bianca is angry because of me.”
Pretending?
Faking it?
My mind went blank. The room tilted, sound draining away. By the time reality slammed back into place, my hand had already swung—striking my sister across the face with a sharp, echoing slap.
