Why should I have to endure all of this?
From the moment I was brought into this Family, I was standing in the wrong place. Silvia never had to fight for anything. As long as she appeared, someone would clear the path for her. And I, labeled as the younger sister, was always nothing more than a backdrop—a shadow cast by a brighter flame.
Many people no longer remember the details of that year. After the bloodbath that nearly dismantled the Ashford name, Don Ettore and his wife Margaret lost their only daughter, and the entire Family fell into a brief yet fatal period of instability. Rivals circled like wolves scenting weakness. It was during that time that Silvia and I were brought into their sight. Origins did not matter. Blood did not matter. What mattered was that she looked almost exactly like the girl who had died—the same dark hair, the same delicate bone structure, the same ghost of a smile.
So the positions were assigned from the very beginning.
She stood at the center, seen as continuation and compensation. I was placed at the margins, like an additional decision that came along with the rest. The Commission understood this without saying it aloud. No one objected. Silvia learned quickly. She learned how to smile, how to show vulnerability, how to gain the upper hand without making a sound—how to wrap men around her finger while appearing as innocent as a saint. And I learned how to stay silent.
The whispered comments and ambiguous looks had long since lost their edge on me. I grew used to being overlooked, even to being compared. The only thing I misjudged was Giorgio.
I once thought he would be different, at least a little.
"Elena."
Silvia's voice came from across the table, gentle yet precise as a stiletto sliding between ribs. When I looked up, she was already on her feet, walking toward us with the grace of someone who had never known a moment's uncertainty. Her face wore flawless concern—the kind that fooled everyone but me.
"At an occasion like this, you should be more attentive," she said softly. "The Family has treated you well. Do not disappoint them."
Her words were mild, yet every syllable reminded me of my place—reminded me that I existed only at their sufferance, that my standing in this world was borrowed, not earned.
I met her gaze, calm and without emotion.
"I am here," I said. "Being late was my fault."
The corner of her lips lifted slightly. It was not a smile, more like confirmation of something she had always known. "You are always like this," she said quietly. "Not proactive, and not likable."
Before her words fully settled, Giorgio had already taken over.
"Do not be like that, Silvia," he said. "Tonight should not be spoiled by something like this."
When he looked at her, his tone softened, his gaze carrying an unmistakable bias—the kind of tenderness that should have been reserved for the woman he was sworn to marry. She responded naturally, as if long accustomed to this kind of protection, this unspoken devotion.
I did not look at them again.
I had seen the evidence. The documents hidden in the concealed cabinet in his private study, carefully backed up in a safe I was never meant to find. Every letter, every record, pointed to the same person. Her name was written again and again, with devotion that bordered on worship. And I did not even qualify as a footnote in his heart.
What we called a betrothal was closer to an approved arrangement—a blood-bound alliance between the Ashford and Corleone Families. As long as it kept Don Ettore steady, as long as it reassured the Commission that the old alliances held firm, Giorgio was willing to play any role.
And he played it well.
At the sit-downs, he was the most reliable executor. In the gray zones where legitimate business bled into darker dealings, he never hesitated. The Family's expansion, the formation of alliances, the intimidation of rival syndicates—all depended on him. Don Ettore trusted him. The Council of Capos relied on him.
And I was merely an attached condition—a clause in a contract I never signed.
"Sit properly."
Margaret finally spoke, her tone cool and restrained, her eyes never quite meeting mine. "You should understand that having someone willing to honor this alliance with you is your good fortune."
The word fortune sounded especially ironic in my mind.
I glanced sideways at Giorgio. He was receiving praise from one of the Capos, his expression confident and composed—the face of a man who knew exactly where he stood in the hierarchy and intended to climb higher still. That face no longer overlapped with the version of him that had once made me waver, that had once made me believe this arrangement might become something more.
At that moment, Silvia smoothly took the seat on his other side. Her movement was not fast, but precise—calculated with the same cold efficiency she brought to everything. I was forced to shift half an inch outward, almost pressed against the edge of the table like an afterthought.
Under the table, there was a slight touch—her fingers brushing against his.
I did not lower my head. I only tightened my fingers around the stem of my wine glass until the crystal threatened to crack.
"You are really considerate," she said softly to him, her voice pitched low enough that only the three of us could hear.
He did not deny it.
