He was willing to sacrifice our blood-union, to counterfeit his love for me, all just to sign a Family pardon that would wipe clean the debt she owed under vendetta.
He even had a son with her.
At dinner, in the long dining hall of the Falcone estate, my mother suddenly teared up, her gaze lingering on the dishes laid before her. She wiped at her eyes, her expression heavy with sorrow.
Lorenzo immediately set down his knife and fork, his face filled with concern as he asked what was wrong.
My father let out a long sigh, gently patting her back. Beneath the tablecloth I could hear the soft clink of the worn silver medallion he always kept turning between his fingers.
"She must be thinking of Vittoria's favorite dishes, and starting to miss her."
"That child, she made a mistake, but we raised her for over ten years under this roof. She didn't deserve to die."
A bitter taste filled my mouth.
She didn't deserve to die?
Then what about me?
Did I deserve to be handed over in her place? Was I just supposed to accept it?
"Donna," Lorenzo said softly, "it's been five years already. Vittoria was only twenty back then. She might have acted impulsively and made a mistake." His palm moved once down the front of his jacket, smoothing the fabric flat.
"I grew up alongside her. Her nature was a little extreme. She thought you were trying to take everything from her, the whole territory, the whole name."
"Five days from now is her death anniversary. I know you don't want to go, so I'll go with your mother and father to visit her grave, all right?"
Lorenzo's gaze wavered, as if afraid I would suddenly lose my temper at the head of the Don's own table.
"Hmm. You should go. After all, she lived in this house longer than I have. It's only natural that you still have feelings for her."
Lorenzo let out a quiet breath of relief, his voice turning even gentler.
"I knew you were kind-hearted. You've never been the type to hold a grudge against your late sister."
My mother dabbed at her eyes, sniffling softly. Her fingers rose to the crucifix at her throat and pressed there, quick and light.
"My dear daughter, a child of our own blood will always be the most understanding…"
I lowered my head, my tears slipping silently into my bowl.
So. They did know I was their real daughter, the true blood of the Falcone line.
A sharp pain twisted in my stomach. The moment I felt it tighten, I pressed my thumb hard against the inside of my wrist, into the old spot where the IV line used to sit, then pushed back my chair, murmured that I wasn't feeling well, and retreated to my room.
A while later, Lorenzo came in, carrying my stomach medicine. His eyes were full of concern, his voice unbearably soft.
Seeing that I had no intention of speaking, he said nothing. Instead he silently fetched warm water and, with practiced care, wiped my face himself.
For ten years after I was brought into the Family, I was the only one he seemed to see.
Even when Vittoria confessed her feelings for him, she had been met with nothing but his cold rejection.
Now, I finally understood.
He never loved me. He only wanted the title that came with me, made successor to the Falcone rackets and territory.
His love and his blood-union had always been two separate things.
Late at night, after Lorenzo drifted into sleep, I reached for the phone on his bedside table.
The password was my birthday.
His pinned contact was me, followed by my parents.
I scrolled through his messages. There was nothing unusual, until I switched accounts.
That was when I found the second one.
Only one name appeared in its chat list. Vittoria.
[Lorenzo, it's been five years. How much longer do I have to keep hiding?]
[She has no proof I hit her, and she's a cripple now. She's no threat at all.]
[Our son keeps crying for his daddy. Can you really bear this?]
Lorenzo's replies were full of reassurance.
[Your parents and I are already discussing a plan. Just be patient.]
So. They had already brought Vittoria back. Buried her under a false name. Built her an entire life.
Only a few days ago.
They had even set her up with a front real-estate racket, registered clean under that fabricated name, 'Celeste Marino.'
In five days, the grand opening would take place.
My hands trembled as I opened Lorenzo's social feed.
I scrolled. My heart turned ice-cold.
For five years, Vittoria had been living in luxury overseas, bankrolled by my family, laundered abroad where no vendetta could reach her.
She dressed in designer labels funded through the Family's laundered money. The villa she lived in? One of the Syndicate's overseas properties.
And Lorenzo? He had been at her side the whole time, using "business trips" as his cover to fly out to her.
Even my own parents stood in the photographs, smiling as if they belonged there.
In that moment, I understood.
They were the real family.
Swallowing back the stinging tears, I took screenshots of every piece of it, then switched back to his main account.
