Lucia's hand froze mid-motion, the joy draining from her face, leaving only raw heartache.
She knew. She understood what I'd already accepted in my bones—those monsters at St. Lazarus were guilty, yes, but the one who truly pushed my children into hell, who killed them with his own hands, was never anyone else.
It was their father. Maeve Falcone.
If he hadn't favored Vanessa. If he hadn't refused to listen. If he hadn't signed that agreement with his own hand, sending my babies to that place, my Elena and Rosalia would still be curled in my arms right now, calling me Mama.
The one truly responsible had always been Maeve.
Lucia pressed her lips together, her eyes reddening again. She reached out and gently took my ice-cold hand. Warmth seeped from her fingertips into mine, but it couldn't thaw the frozen wasteland inside me. After a long silence, she seemed to steel herself, her voice both firm and tender: "Alright, Adriana. I promise you. I'll go talk to Grandfather right now. No matter what he says, I'll help you. I'll get you out of here, away from all of this, so you can finally breathe."
I watched her walk away, that slender, determined silhouette like a lifeline thrown into dark water. But even a lifeline couldn't pull back a heart already shattered beyond repair. I couldn't hold it in anymore. The sobs tore out of me, muffled and desperate, as if I were purging every last drop of grievance, agony, and injustice I'd swallowed over the years. Tears soaked the pillowcase, cold against my skin, matching the chill that had settled into my very bones.
Memories surfaced unbidden, distant and warm, from another lifetime.
I was eight years old when I first came to the Falcone household. That year, Maeve was eight too. Salvatore Falcone and my grandfather had been bound by something older than friendship, a loyalty forged in the worst years of the syndicate wars, when a bullet meant for Salvatore found my grandfather's shoulder instead. Between them existed a bond sealed in blood. A debt the Falcones could never fully repay.
My parents died in separate incidents shortly after I was born. I grew up at my grandfather's side. Vittorio Moretti was all the family I had. But fate is cruel. When I was eight, he passed away too, leaving me utterly alone. It was Salvatore who honored that old blood debt. Despite resistance from his own family, he brought me into the Falcone compound and raised me like his own granddaughter, cherished and protected.
I still remember those first days. I was timid, afraid to speak, afraid to meet anyone's eyes, always shrinking into corners of that enormous house where soldiers stood at every door and conversations stopped when I entered a room. It was Lucia who sought me out, took my hand, and grinned at me: "Adriana, this is your home now. I'm your little sister. Anyone gives you trouble, I'll make them pay!" And it was Salvatore who brought me treats every day, sat with me while I did homework, patted my head and said gently, "Don't be afraid, child. Grandpa's here."
Only Maeve hated me from the start. He called me "charity case" in front of everyone, threw my belongings out of the house, tormented me at every turn, insisted I didn't belong in the Falcone name. But Salvatore always scolded him sharply, and Lucia always defended me. Eventually, Maeve learned to keep his cruelty quieter, though his contempt never faded.
All these years, Salvatore and Lucia treated me as true family, as one of their own. They gave me warmth, gave me something to hold onto, showed me what home could feel like. So seven years ago, when Salvatore suggested a blood alliance between me and Maeve, I agreed.
I told myself it didn't matter that Maeve didn't love me. It didn't matter that there was no romance between us. If I was good to him, kept the household running smoothly, gave him children, surely, someday, he would see my devotion. Surely he would soften, even just a little.
I told myself that even without love, even with a life that was merely ordinary, as long as I had my two precious daughters, as long as I could watch them grow, my life would have meaning. It wouldn't have been lived in vain.
I poured everything into my children, into this home. Maeve was rarely there. His heart belonged to Vanessa. I swallowed it. I accepted it.
But never, never did I imagine that all my patience, all my hoping, would lead to this.
My two baby girls. The treasures I'd cradled in my palms for five years. Their own father signed them away to hell, where they were tortured to death.
And him? He was out celebrating his precious Vanessa's pregnancy with his child, toasting the future heir while my daughters lay in ashes.
Now I had nothing. No family. No children. No love. No home.
Only endless pain. Bottomless despair. And hatred carved into my bones.
My thumb found the edge of the ash locket at my throat and pressed until the metal bit into skin. I don't know how long I cried. My voice went hoarse, then silent. The tears dried up, leaving only the raw burn behind my eyes.
The door opened softly. Lucia stepped in, weariness etched on her face, but also a flicker of relief: "Adriana, Grandfather wants to see you. He has something to say."
