"Bianca, the girl Lorenzo took in, she's the jewel of his heart. Pure, gentle, and Lorenzo dotes on her like she's blood!"
That much was true. Bianca was the same age as me, twenty-four, yet the way she spoke made her seem three or four years younger, drawing out that instinct in men to shield her, to stand between her and the world.
But despite this being our first meeting, she made it clear where I stood with her.
When she came to treat me in the Family infirmary, needle in hand, I felt every deliberate misstep. Each misplaced prick sent a sharp sting through my skin, the pain sharpening with every touch.
Within moments, the back of my hand was bruised and swollen.
She looked at me with a faintly apologetic expression, yet not once did she utter a word of remorse. She tilted her head, and her smile widened just slightly, the way a girl smiles when she has done exactly what she meant to do.
In the end, it was an older woman of the house, one of the medic's hands, who could no longer stand to watch and found a reason to send Bianca away. Only then was the line set properly into my vein.
Even so, the unease in my chest refused to settle. I insisted she apologize. In our world, a wrong left unspoken becomes a debt, and I would not carry it in silence.
Bianca was unwilling, her lips pressing into a tight line. But under Lorenzo's quiet pressure, she finally relented, muttering three reluctant words.
"I'm sorry."
As soon as the words left her lips, her eyes brimmed with tears and she turned on her heels, fleeing without a second glance.
Lorenzo didn't go after her. Instead, he offered me a warm smile, his voice gentle as he reassured me it was nothing.
Yet, in the next breath, he shattered me.
He hung my most intimate photos across every screen he could reach, a public act of dishonor spread through the city, just to soothe Bianca's wounded pride.
Before this, he had held my hand so tenderly, whispering, "Once you meet Bianca, we'll bring our families to the table and speak of the betrothal."
But if he truly meant to make me his, why would he do this?
Had it all been a lie? Had every ti amo he whispered over the past four years been nothing more than empty words spoken to keep me still?
Then, a drunken conversation resurfaced in my mind, one of Lorenzo's men laughing out a truth I had been too blind to see:
"If Lorenzo didn't have to pass Bianca off as his sister, you really think it'd be your turn to be called our sister-in-law?"
A sharp pain spread through my chest, knocking the air from my lungs.
I didn't know how I made it out of that hotel. As soon as I stepped through the doors, I felt the sharp, judgmental stares, the amusement in them, the quiet verdict of men who already knew.
Shame pressed down on me, thick and suffocating, wrapping around my trembling form like a second skin. My fingers shook as I dialed my parents' number, my last lifeline. On my right hand, the thin silver band turned fast beneath my thumb, faster than I could stop it.
Because of the Family's work, they moved every three years to safe territory beyond the reach of enemies, running operations no one dared speak of aloud, unreachable by anyone.
But today, of all days, their work had just closed.
The moment the call connected, their familiar voices broke through my fragile composure, shattering the dam I had desperately tried to hold.
I cried until my chest ached and my sobs turned silent. Then, with trembling fingers, I wiped my tears away.
"Mamma, Papà... I've made my decision. I want to come to you. I want to take my place in the Family's work. I want to do something that matters with my life."
Before, I had let Lorenzo's whims decide everything for me. A single soft complaint, a careless "I don't want you so far from me, cara. I'd be miserable without you," and I had set my own name aside without a second thought.
But now, I was done bleeding myself dry for a love that never existed.
I had told myself that as long as things between Lorenzo and me held steady, a life built at his side would be enough.
But I had been a fool.
He never loved me.
A man who truly loved me would never stand by and let me be disgraced, reduced to nothing more than a passing joke for other men to sneer over their drinks.
I had been blind and naïve.
But at least I still had a way out. The Falcone blood in my veins was a door no one could bolt against me.
I made my way back to the apartment in a numb haze. The moment I stepped inside, the cold emptiness hit me. Lorenzo hadn't come back.
The place read the harsh glare from the street and drew the curtains without being told. Shadows swallowed the room, deepening the exhaustion pressing down on me.
I sank onto the carpet, my body heavy with weariness.
I wanted to cry, but no tears came.
Then, a sharp ringtone shattered the silence.
I glanced at the screen. Lorenzo.
I answered.
"Where are you?"
I parted my lips, but my throat was so dry it burned.
