I ended up staying at the clinic far longer than I ever expected.
Part of it was the broken ankle that still throbbed no matter how still I tried to be. But the real reason was simpler, quieter, and somehow more painful — there was no one waiting to take me home.
No one, except Lorenzo.
Lorenzo, who had once sat beside me in university lecture halls, back when we were both pretending the gravity of our families couldn't reach us there. Lorenzo, who had confessed his feelings years ago, only to be turned down gently because my heart already belonged to someone else. To Celia.
And somehow, now, he was the one holding my hand when the nights felt too long. He brought meals I could actually stomach — real food, not the clinic's institutional trays, but containers from a Marchetti-owned restaurant on Mulberry Street that appeared at my bedside without explanation. He stayed silent when I cried, never pressing, never demanding. He showed up without making me feel like I owed him something.
On the morning they told me I could finally leave, he wheeled me out to the small courtyard behind the clinic. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, warm and gentle. A Marchetti soldier stood at the gate, back turned, giving us privacy while making certain no one approached without permission. We sat without talking for a while, listening to the soft whisper of wind through branches.
"I wasn't joking before," Lorenzo said at last, watching me carefully. "You don't have to go back there. If you choose to leave… I'll help you start over."
I looked down at my hands.
They'd grown thinner. A little shaky. They looked like hands that had held on too long and finally loosened their grip.
"I need a few days," I said softly. "Five. I have things to fix… things to settle. After that, if you'll still have me… I'll go with you."
His smile was quiet and bittersweet. "I'll be right where you left me."
By the time I reached the estate, the sun was already high.
The world felt cruelly normal — bright light, passing cars, a groundskeeper trimming hedges along the perimeter wall — while a storm twisted tight in my chest.
The hospital cane knocked lightly against the flagstones as I limped toward the door. Every step sent a reminder through my body that I wasn't whole yet. No soldier met me at the entrance. No one had been told to watch for my arrival.
Choosing Lorenzo felt like stepping into the unknown.
But staying in a house where no one saw me at all felt worse.
I pushed the door open.
Laughter met me before anything else.
I froze where I stood.
In the living room, they were all there — Celia, Marco, Enzo… and Vera. Sitting casually, drinks in their hands, like nothing around them had ever broken. Vera leaned comfortably against Celia's shoulder, her head tilted toward him. The afternoon light caught on cut crystal glasses and the low gleam of Celia's cufflinks.
My husband.
My sister.
My brothers.
All together.
All at ease.
Their faces shifted the second they saw me.
"Oh," Celia said, blinking like he'd forgotten I existed. "Right… you're home today. How are you feeling?"
Forgot. He'd forgotten.
The urge to laugh rose up sharp and ugly in my throat. None of them had bothered to see me once. I had been lying in a Marchetti clinic for days, and not a single Valente soldier had been sent to check, not a single Carbone car had pulled up to the entrance.
Before I could speak, Vera was already on her feet, moving toward me with a bright, practiced smile.
"Sera," she said sweetly. "I missed you. I'm so sorry we didn't come visit… I've just been so unwell. But I'm doing better now. What about you? Are you okay?"
I stepped back without thinking. My skin crawled.
"I'm not fine," I said flatly.
Her smile flickered. Confusion crossed her face before she reached out to touch me again.
"Seraphina—"
I shoved her hand away.
"Don't put your hands on me."
Enzo was on his feet in a second.
"What's wrong with you?" he snapped. "You know she's fragile right now."
Marco followed him. "She's been suffering. You don't get to act like this."
My voice broke through the room, sharper than I felt.
"And what about me? I was in the hospital. I was hit by a truck."
Celia sighed like I'd inconvenienced him.
"That was your fault," he said. "You ran into the road. But Vera… she has cancer. She's not like you."
"I'm still her sister," Vera said softly, eyes shining like glass. Her fingers drifted to the inside of her left wrist, pressing lightly against the pulse point. "We're both hurting. We should be supporting each other, not fighting…"
I shook my head.
"I was hurting too," I said. "But none of you came. Not once. I lost my baby and—"
Vera staggered suddenly, a hand flying to her stomach.
"Oh my god," Enzo breathed, rushing to her side. "She's getting sick again."
They moved instantly.
Celia caught her before she could fall.
Marco was already grabbing a towel.
Enzo rubbed her back softly like she'd shatter if he touched too hard.
And I stood there.
Unseen.
Unheard.
Invisible again.
They didn't even acknowledge what I'd just said. I thought about shouting it. Forcing them to listen. But the exhaustion in my bones told me what I already knew — I was fighting for space in a place that had never saved a seat for me. Not at this table. Not in this Family.
So I turned away.
I walked, slowly, painfully, toward the bedroom.
When I opened the door, I stopped breathing.
Everything that was mine… was gone.
My clothes.
My framed photos.
The small trinkets I'd carefully arranged.
All replaced.
Vera's perfume on the air. Her makeup spread across the dresser. Her dresses hanging neatly by the mirror. My things had been cleared out with the efficiency of a crew sanitizing a room after a hit — no trace left, nothing to prove I had ever existed in this space.
My hands shook so badly the cane nearly slipped from my fingers.
I stepped back — and she was standing there.
Vera.
Smiling.
Not the sweet, fragile smile she wore in front of others.
This one was sharp.
Honest.
Cruel.
"You know," she said lazily, tilting her head, "I really tried to be kind before. I did. But being kind never got me anything. While I was gone, you stepped right into my life. My place. My man. Even my brothers."
She stepped closer.
"I'm just taking back what was always mine. I should've done it five years ago."
There was no warmth in her eyes.
Only satisfaction.
She gave me a look filled with fake sympathy.
"Don't worry," she added lightly. "I'll give you a few days to sort yourself out. I'm not heartless. I'd hate for you to end up sleeping on the streets. That wouldn't look good for us."
I stared at her.
My voice was low. "Are you really sick?"
Her eyes narrowed at once.
"What do you think?"
But memories flashed through my mind — the way she used to fake fainting spells, clutching her head just to avoid obligations at the compound. The way she'd cry to our father about imaginary pain if it got her sympathy, got her excused from sitting through another interminable Sunday dinner with visiting capos.
"You think I'm pretending?" she said louder, enough to carry beyond the door.
I didn't answer.
I didn't have to.
Footsteps rushed down the hallway.
Marco and Enzo appeared.
"She's doing it again," Vera cried immediately. "She keeps saying I'm faking. She thinks my cancer isn't real."
Enzo's face hardened when he looked at me.
"You've always been poisonous," he spat. "No one ever liked you when we grew up. This is why."
Marco stepped forward.
He grabbed the chain at my neck and yanked.
The necklace fell into his hand — the pendant bearing the Carbone crest, the one he'd given me when we were teenagers. The one he said meant he'd always stand by me. My thumb had pressed against the hollow of my throat a thousand times to feel it there, and now there was nothing.
"You don't get to wear this anymore," he said coldly.
I didn't fight back.
I didn't cry.
I just stood there, feeling strangely empty.
One by one, they left.
And I slowly lowered myself to the floor, my side aching from standing too long, my ankle screaming in quiet protest.
I stayed quiet.
Because in a few days, I would be gone.
And when they realized what they'd done…
It would already be too late.
