My breath hitched violently. My hand flew to my mouth, but it did nothing to stop the sob that tore out of me.
Then I saw the note.
Written in messy, childish handwriting.
"We told you to leave. Next time, it won't just be a photo."
My fingers curled tightly around the torn pieces, crushing them in my fist as my entire body shook uncontrollably.
Why?
Why this?
That picture… it was all I had left. Of my parents. Of my past. Of the life I used to have before everything fell apart.
I pressed the broken pieces against my chest, as if I could somehow hold them together, as if I could stop the pain from spreading any further.
Memories flooded in without warning.
Gianna climbing into my bed in the middle of the night when she had nightmares, her tiny hands clutching my sleeve. Matteo holding onto my fingers tightly when he stuttered in front of others, looking to me for reassurance. Lucia hiding behind me whenever she was scared, peeking out from my back like I was her shield.
All those nights I stayed awake for them.
All those tears I wiped away.
All those lullabies I sang until my voice went hoarse.
And yet…
Not once. Not even for a second. Did they ever see me as their mother.
And now… they wanted me gone. Like I had never mattered at all. Like I was nothing.
I forced myself to stand, my legs unsteady beneath me. I wiped my face roughly, smearing away the tears, and began to pack.
Only the essentials. My wallet. My phone. And my mother's old scarf.
At the very back of the closet, tucked away where I hadn't looked in years, I found a small velvet box. My heart clenched.
The bracelet. My mother's bracelet.
I opened it slowly, almost afraid of what I would find.
And then I saw it. Crushed. Broken clean in two.
Another piece of me… destroyed.
For a moment, I just stared at it, my mind blank, my heart too numb to even react properly. My left hand drifted to my bare wrist and pressed hard against the skin where the bracelet had sat for years, the emptiness there worse than any wound on my body.
Then, carefully, I picked up the broken bracelet and placed it into my bag.
No tears came this time. I had none left to give.
Downstairs, the celebration was already in full swing. Laughter echoed through the halls of the Montecarlo estate. Glasses clinked. Voices blended into a cheerful hum. I could hear soldiers and capos and their wives all performing their loyalty, the way they did at every gathering the Old Don hosted.
Enzo was down there too. Smiling. Talking. Playing his role perfectly. As if I had never existed.
I pulled my sleeves down tightly, trying to cover the angry red bites that still burned across my skin. My hand throbbed painfully, swollen and tender, but there was nothing I could do about it.
Taking a steadying breath, I opened the door and stepped out.
I heard them before I saw them. Lined up along the corridor like a receiving line of small, well-dressed judges. The hall sconces caught the silk of their clothes, the sheen of their hair, and the flatness behind their eyes.
"Wicked witch changed her dress," Gianna snickered.
"Doesn't fix her face," Nico added with a laugh, one shoulder lifting in that careless shrug.
"Shhh," Alessia said with a smirk. "She still has to play the piano. Let's not ruin Grandpa's party… yet."
Each word struck like a blade.
But I kept walking. Step by step. Face composed. Smile forced.
The grand room opened around me, heavy with cigar smoke and the low murmur of men who understood that the Old Don's birthday was as much a summit as a celebration. I sat down at the piano, my hands trembling as I placed them on the keys. The familiar melody began to flow, even as pain shot through my fingers with every movement. I had practiced this piece for weeks.
Now, I played it like a ghost.
All eyes were on me. I could feel them. The whispers. The curious stares. The quiet gasps at my appearance. Wives leaning toward each other. A soldier near the doorway shifting his weight, uncomfortable with something he couldn't name.
But I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.
When the final note faded into silence, I stood immediately and slipped away before anyone could approach me.
I needed air. I needed space. I needed to breathe.
And I needed Miso.
But before I could take more than a few steps into the garden, a voice stopped me.
"Seraphina."
I turned slowly, blinking back tears as I faced him. The only person in this house who had ever shown me even a fraction of kindness. He stood beneath the garden pergola, both hands resting on the silver head of his cane, watching me with eyes that had judged men for half a century and never once been fooled.
"Happy Birthday, Grandpa," I said softly.
He frowned deeply, his eyes scanning my face, taking in every bruise, every mark. "On my happiest day, you look the saddest. What happened?"
