That cross was never just an accessory. It wasn't something that could be measured by its price or replaced with something more expensive. It was a talisman, something my Blackwood had fought desperately to obtain for me, something that carried a piece of her life within it.
When I was a child, I had been frail and sickly. I spent most of my days confined to bed, my body weak and unresponsive. When I was four years old, I fell into a deep coma, my small body barely clinging to life. The doctors had already told my parents to prepare themselves for the worst, their words heavy and final, as if there was nothing more they could do.
But my Blackwood refused to accept that fate.
She went to the old cathedral on Mulberry Street, praying day and night with unwavering determination. When prayers alone didn't seem enough, she made the pilgrimage to the hillside sanctuary outside the city, her body enduring the scorching summer heat. Each step was a struggle, her strength draining away, but she kept going, driven by a single thought—to save me. The priest there had told her that only those who climbed on foot, suffering every stone of the path, could receive the blessed cross kept behind the altar.
By the time she reached the top and obtained that cross, she was on the verge of collapsing. Her face was pale, her breathing shallow, yet she held onto it as if it were the only thing keeping her standing. The old women of the neighborhood said such devotion could move even the saints to weep.
And somehow, it did.
Against all odds, I woke up.
I survived the coma that should have taken my life. But my Blackwood paid the price for that miracle. Her health deteriorated rapidly after that, her body never recovering from what she had endured.
On her deathbed, with what little strength she had left, she placed that cross into my hands. Her voice was weak but firm as she told me to keep it safe, to never let it be lost. Before saying anything else, she pressed her thumb in a small cross over my knuckles. It was the last warning and the last comfort at once.
From that day on, I never took it off. It stayed close to my heart, a constant reminder of her love, her sacrifice, and the life she had fought so hard to preserve for me. It wasn't just jewelry. It was everything.
And now, it was in Serafina's hands.
"Try and take it from me," Serafina taunted, her voice dripping with cruelty. "I'll make sure it's destroyed right in front of you!"
Before I could even react, she loosened her grip and flung the cross onto the ground with force.
Time seemed to freeze for a split second.
Then came the sound.
A sharp, brittle crack echoed through the air as the blessed pendant hit the pavement and shattered instantly. The fragments scattered in every direction, tiny pieces glinting under the light before coming to rest on the ground. The courtyard went silent. Even the soldiers by the gate stopped moving.
"No!"
The word tore out of my throat, raw and desperate.
My heart dropped as if it had been ripped out of my chest. It felt like a blade had been plunged straight into me, twisting mercilessly as I stared at the broken remains of the only thing my Blackwood had left me. My vision blurred, my breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as the world around me seemed to collapse inward. My thumb reached for the jagged edge of the cross at my collarbone and found nothing. Just skin. Just absence.
Something inside me snapped.
"You're a monster!" I shouted, my voice shaking with uncontrollable rage.
Before I could stop myself, my hand lashed out. The sound of the slap rang loudly as it landed across Serafina's face, the force of it carrying all the grief and fury I could no longer contain. In a place where the wrong word could end a man, I had struck the woman who thought she was the Don's bride in front of everyone.
For a brief moment, everything went silent.
Then Serafina shrieked, her hand flying to her cheek as her eyes burned with fury.
"You bitch! How dare you hit me?" she screamed, her voice sharp enough to pierce through the crowd.
