"What's wrong with you?"
His gaze dropped, landing on my collarbone where the edge of a bandage peeked out from beneath my clothes.
"What happened to your neck?"
He stepped closer, reaching out instinctively as if to check it himself.
But I turned away before his fingers could touch me.
His hand stopped midair, suspended awkwardly. For a split second, something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or annoyance.
For once, I didn't let him touch me.
The shift was subtle, but it was enough.
His expression hardened. Impatience replaced whatever hesitation had been there, and he dropped his hand, turning as if to leave.
"Adriana," he said coldly, "I've given you everything I promised. You have no reason to act out like this."
But I hadn't done anything at all.
As he took a step toward the door, I looked at his back, at the man I had once believed was my entire world.
"If you think I'm standing in your way," I said quietly, "with her or anyone else… maybe…"
My voice didn't shake.
"…we should dissolve this."
Dante stopped as if he had hit a wall.
Slowly, he turned around, staring at me like he hadn't heard correctly. "What did you just say?"
There was a brief silence.
Then he laughed, a dry, humorless sound that carried no warmth.
"So that's what this is?" he said, his tone turning sharp. "First you cling to me like your life depends on it, and now you're trying emotional blackmail?"
His eyes hardened as he looked at me.
"Adriana, do you really think a manipulative woman like you is someone I could ever love?"
The words landed without impact.
"You've been in this house since you were ten," he continued, his voice growing colder. "The Family took you in. If we dissolve this, where the hell would you even go?"
Each sentence was sharper than the last, deliberately cutting, deliberately cruel.
"If you're not strong enough to walk away, then stop pretending to be," he finished. "Just stick to your role as Mrs. Falcone."
He didn't often lose his temper like this.
But when he did, there was nothing restrained about it.
He didn't stop until he had stripped me down to nothing in his eyes, until he had made it clear that without him, without the Falcone name, I was insignificant.
I didn't argue. I didn't defend myself.
I simply turned on the faucet and began washing my hands, the sound of running water filling the silence between us.
Behind me, I could feel his gaze lingering, heavy and unreadable.
Eventually, his tone shifted. Calmer. Colder. Detached.
"Salvatore Salvatore's tribute dinner is next week," he said. "Get something respectable and come with me."
It wasn't a request.
It was an order, delivered no differently than how he would speak to the soldiers who ran his errands.
The day of the tribute dinner arrived before I realized it.
Dante actually came home early, something he hadn't done in a long time, supposedly to pick me up. For a brief second, I almost thought he might have remembered something, might have made an effort.
But the moment I stepped outside, that thought vanished.
Liliana was already in the car.
She sat in the front passenger seat, her posture elegant, her appearance flawless as always. When she saw me, she turned slightly and offered a polite, composed smile.
"Good evening, Mrs. Falcone," she greeted softly, her voice gentle and perfectly measured.
"Mr. Falcone, I've already prepared a gift for Don Salvatore," Liliana said softly, her tone gentle yet confident, as if everything was naturally under her control. "And your stomach's been acting up lately. You really shouldn't drink at the feast tonight, okay?"
Every word she said landed exactly where it should have come from me.
From the wife.
From Mrs. Falcone.
So I said nothing.
There was no space left for me to speak anyway.
When we arrived, the car had barely come to a complete stop before Liliana opened the door and stepped out with effortless grace. Dante's soldier held the door, eyes front, posture rigid. Dante followed right behind her, his attention already on her, as if I didn't exist. I got out last.
She was the first to walk up to Don Salvatore.
"Don Salvatore, happy birthday," she said with a warm smile, her voice carrying just the right amount of affection.
The old man's face lit up the moment he saw her. His eyes softened with unmistakable fondness, the kind he had never once shown me. His worn wooden rosary sat still in his lap, untouched. When his gaze shifted to the scroll in her hands, his expression grew even more pleased.
She carefully presented it, slowly unrolling the painting.
It was a longevity piece, intricate and elegant, every stroke deliberate and refined. The kind of gift that required time, thought, and understanding of the recipient.
It was obvious.
This wasn't her first time at the compound.
As for me, I stayed where I was, a few steps behind, with no intention of forcing myself into a place I didn't belong.
Don Salvatore had never liked me.
