For three years of marriage, every meal served in the Valente household had been prepared by my father's hands and mine.
Even when fever burned through us, when our bodies trembled with illness, Domenico never once crossed the threshold of the kitchen. The room existed beneath his notice, as did the labor of those who loved him.
Yet now he was willing to cook porridge for another woman.
A bitter laugh escaped my throat—the sound of something vital being severed. It felt as though someone had taken a blade to my chest and carved me open with surgical precision.
Before sliding into the waiting town car, Adriana turned back. Her face arranged itself into an expression of wounded kindness, fragile innocence painted across her features like a masterwork of deception.
"Do not dirty your hands because of disgusting people, Francesca." Her voice carried the tremor of a saint offering absolution. "Heaven always has justice."
The bystanders were instantly moved to tears. Some of them—strangers who knew nothing of the blood and betrayal that had brought us to this moment—actually spat on me as I stood there.
More people cursed as they walked away, their words trailing behind them like poison.
I straightened myself slowly, methodically. Every wound on my body burned with fresh agony, but I would not give them the satisfaction of watching me crumble.
When I thought of my father—of Enzo lying broken in that hospital bed—I gritted my teeth until I tasted copper and rushed back through the streets.
People pointed at me everywhere I passed. Whispers followed me like shadows.
That was when I understood. The footage from the federal hearing had already gone viral across every platform. Someone had made certain of it.
Adriana Croce had become the delicate angel that millions wanted to protect—the innocent victim of a vicious family's schemes. Meanwhile, my father and I were being cursed as parasites, villains, and swindlers. The narrative had been flipped with the precision of a professional cleaner wiping down a crime scene.
When I walked into the ward, my father was wrapped in layers of bandages, both legs shattered beyond recognition. Even his breathing trembled with pain, each inhale a small act of courage.
I nearly collapsed from the weight pressing against my chest.
Others in the room murmured their complaints, their voices carrying the particular cruelty of the self-righteous.
"A person like that is vicious. Injuring himself just to fake an accident."
"He better not try to extort anyone. Tell them to get out before they bring more trouble."
I tried desperately to explain—to make them understand that Enzo Rinaldi had been set up, that the hit-and-run was no accident but a calculated strike. No one wanted to believe me. They had already chosen their truth.
My father listened to their words, shaking with impotent rage as he pounded the bed with what little strength remained in his broken body.
He had spent his whole life serving the Family faithfully, helping others, keeping the docks running clean. Yet here he was, being insulted like a common rat, all because he had trusted the wrong people.
He looked at me with eyes that had lost their light.
"I treated Domenico like a son, Francesca. I watched him grow. He has never been wronged in his life—not by me, not by anyone in our crew. Why would he help others hurt me?" His voice cracked. "What did I do wrong?"
I could no longer hold back the tears. They streamed down my face in hot, silent rivers.
But the people around us kept mocking, their words like salt ground into open wounds.
"You are all vicious. This is the retribution you deserve."
More and more people crowded around the doorway, throwing filthy and hateful looks at us as though we were specimens in a cage. The mob mentality had taken hold—that particular madness that allows ordinary people to become cruel.
I could not bear to let my father suffer another second of this humiliation. I decided to discharge him, to take him somewhere safe where the vultures could not reach.
But when the clinic contact brought the bill, I froze completely.
All the charges had been raised to more than ten times the original amount. Procedures that should have cost thousands now demanded tens of thousands. The numbers swam before my eyes.
The bought doctor lowered his voice, his eyes sliding away from mine.
"You offended someone you should not have, Mrs. Valente. Some debts must be paid—one way or another."
Soldiers surrounded me like hunters blocking their prey, their presence a silent threat that required no elaboration. They wore the blank expressions of men who had done this before and would do it again without hesitation.
It was clear they would not let us leave without the money.
My hands trembled as I took out my phone, navigating to the account with fingers that felt like they belonged to someone else.
The balance had become zero.
Domenico had transferred everything out. Every cent of tribute, every dollar I had saved, every resource I might have used to protect my father—gone.
I called him immediately, my heart pounding against my ribs like a caged animal.
Domenico's voice was lazy when he answered, almost amused. The voice of a man who held all the cards and knew it.
"Adriana has been having trouble sleeping, Francesca. Consider this her emotional compensation."
I could not stop myself from shouting into the phone, all pretense of composure abandoned.
"That is my father's medical fee. He needs surgery. He needs care."
"As long as you publicly admit you slandered Adriana—that you fabricated evidence against her—she will give you a large payout." Domenico's tone remained calm, reasonable, as though he were discussing a minor business arrangement rather than my father's life. "His legs are already broken. There is no point saving them. Better to admit guilt and let him spend the rest of his life comfortably in bed."
A pause. Then, softer: "Once this is over, I will live well with you again. Things can go back to how they were."
The next moment, I heard a heavy thud on his end—the sound of a body falling against sheets—followed by breathy, intimate sounds that left no room for misinterpretation.
Realization struck me like a bullet to the chest.
My phone slipped from my hand and clattered against the floor. I covered my mouth, fighting the violent urge to vomit as the sounds continued, muffled now but unmistakable.
Before the bought doctor could call for enforcers, the heat arrived.
Two detectives in rumpled suits pushed through the crowd, their badges catching the fluorescent light.
"Adriana Croce and Domenico Valente reported that your father attempted to extort them. We need to bring him in for questioning."
My father had just finished surgery. The pain was still written across his face in lines of agony, his broken body held together by bandages and sheer will.
I fell to my knees and begged, my dignity abandoned on the cold hospital floor.
The cops could only shake their heads, their expressions carrying the particular helplessness of men following orders they did not agree with.
"These are orders from above, ma'am. We cannot do anything. Our hands are tied."
I tried to block the bed, to put my body between them and my father, but they said I was obstructing the law. That I would be arrested too if I did not step aside.
My father was dragged away violently, his protests weak and breathless. The bandages on his legs turned red with fresh blood, blooming like roses against the white gauze.
I ran after them, my heels clicking against the linoleum in a desperate rhythm.
But when I reached the corner of the corridor, a black bag suddenly covered my head, plunging the world into darkness.
A storm of fists and kicks crashed down on me from every direction.
"How dare you lay a hand on Domenico's woman." The voice was rough, Brooklyn-accented, filled with righteous fury. "Learn your place."
"Do not kill her. She is still Domenico's wife." Another voice, more cautious. "The Boss would not want that kind of heat."
"Wife?" A cruel laugh. "Domenico never cared about her. His heart has always been with Adriana. If Francesca had not forced herself into the arrangement, she would never have married him. Everyone knows that."
I did not know how long the beating lasted before they finally left, their footsteps fading into silence.
I lay curled on the cold floor, motionless, like a discarded rag someone had wrung dry and thrown away.
The taste of blood filled my mouth. Above me, the fluorescent lights buzzed their indifferent song.
