Bianca's Pov

The moment I stepped into the house, I caught the strong smell of smoke coming from the sitting room. My heart skipped as a bad feeling crept into my chest.

I moved forward quickly, my steps uneven, my body still weak, but something inside me screamed to hurry.

The closer I got to the living room, the stronger the smell became.

My breath hitched as I pushed the door open and froze.

Flames flickered in the center of the room. A metal basin sat on the marble floor, fire dancing wildly inside it, devouring colors that once meant everything to me.

The canvases in the fire were my paintings. The ones my mentor left me before he died.

For a second, my brain refused to process it. Then it hit me hard. My chest tightened so violently it felt like something inside me had just been torn open again.

And standing beside the fire was Celia, a smug smile on her face.

"Oh, you're back," she grinned.

"Stop!" I screamed, my voice cracking as I rushed forward.

I dropped to my knees and reached straight into the fire. Pain exploded through my hand, sharp and blinding, but I barely felt it.

I grabbed what was left of the canvas but it crumbled and turned to ash.

"No…" My voice came out in a whisper.

"It's gone…"

My fingers trembled as the last piece disintegrated in my hands. The black dust clung to my skin before slipping away.

A broken sound tore out of my throat.

That was the last painting he gave me. The last thing he touched.

Gabriel D'Angelo, my mentor.

The only person who ever cared for me without expecting anything in return.

"Hold the brush gently, Bianca."

His voice had always been patient and warm. Like no matter how badly I failed, he would still be there. Before saying something painfully true, he would scrape a fleck of dried paint from beneath his thumbnail with exacting care, then look at me as if I were the only student in the world.

"Art isn't about perfection," he said, guiding my trembling hand. "It's how we express what we can't say out loud."

Back then, I had been afraid of ruining everything.

Now… everything was already ruined.

"Why are you making such a fuss?"

Celia's voice dragged me back.

I lifted my head slowly. Her smug face blurred through the tears gathering in my eyes.

Everything I had left of him was gone. Burned, like it never mattered.

"Why?" My voice broke. "Why would you do this?"

She tilted her head, completely unbothered.

"Do what?"

My hands shook violently, my burned skin stinging as I clenched my fists.

"Those are my things! Who gave you the right to touch them?!"

She glanced at the fire like it bored her.

"After I was discharged, Dante let me move into the master suite because it faces the garden better than my old room," she said casually. The way she used his first name, no title, no distance, was a claim in itself. In this house, under this roof, she was telling me exactly where she stood.

My breath caught. The master suite belonged to me.

"He also said I could handle your things however I like."

Her lips curved slightly.

"These paintings are so dark and depressing. Like some kind of curse."

My heartbeat slowed. Each word sinking deeper.

"Maybe that's why your child wasn't lucky enough to come into this world."

Something inside me snapped completely.

"You bitch!"

I surged to my feet, my vision going red as I raised my hand but it was caught mid-air.

"Enough!"

I turned sharply to face Dante.

His grip was tight and painful, like I was the one doing something wrong. The gold saint medal he always carried was still in his other hand, motionless between his fingers.

"How dare you touch her?" he snapped. "How can you be so cruel? She just gave birth!"

Cruel? A hollow laugh escaped me.

"I'm cruel?" I said, my voice shaking. "She burned everything! Those were Gabriel's paintings!"

"So what?"

The words landed softly but they shattered something inside me.

"So what?" I repeated in disbelief.

"Gabriel saved your life!" I shouted. "He died pulling you out of that burning car!"

Dante frowned, irritation flashing across his face.

"I didn't ask him to."

My breath caught and my knees weakened. For a moment, I couldn't feel the ground beneath me.

"How… how can you say that?" I whispered.

"That was years ago, Bianca. He's dead now," he said coldly. "Those things don't matter anymore. You need to move on."

Each word sank deeper than the last, like nails being hammered into something already broken.

"Move on?" My voice trembled. "You have no heart."

"Stop creating a scene," Dante said flatly. "The baby is sleeping. I don't want you waking him."

I smiled bitterly. My child was dead and now I had to be quiet for hers.

Celia stepped closer, gently holding his arm.

"I didn't mean anything bad," she said softly. "I just thought those paintings didn't belong here. I was helping."

Her eyes flickered to mine, filled with mocking laughter, like she was enjoying every second of this. Her smile had appeared half a heartbeat too early, the way it always did when she knew she'd already won.

My entire body trembled.

"I never asked for your help, you lying bitch!" I snapped.

"Calm down right now or I'll make you regret it," Dante warned.

"Let me go!" I struggled, my burned hand screaming in pain as I tried to pull free.

Then I felt a sharp kick slam into my side. Pain exploded through my body as I crashed to the floor, the impact knocking the air out of my lungs.

For a second, I couldn't breathe. My chest tightened painfully as I gasped, but no air came in.

"I'm sorry!" Celia cried instantly. "I thought she was going to hit you! It was a reflex!"

"It's alright," Dante said, pulling her closer. "You were just protecting me. She's the one causing trouble."

My fingers curled weakly against the cold floor. My burned hand throbbed. My side ached and my chest hurt but none of it compared to what was inside.

They killed my child and now they took the last thing my mentor left me.

"You must promise me, Bianca…"

His voice had been weak that day. I held his hand tightly, afraid that if I let go, he would disappear.

"You'll protect my art… no matter what happens."

"I promise," I whispered.

A tear slipped down the side of my face. My fingers drifted to the pale mark where my wedding ring used to sit, pressing into the bare skin like I could hold on to something that was already gone. I couldn't even keep that promise.

Darkness slowly crept into my vision. The last thing I saw was Celia leaning safely into Dante's arms, and then everything went black.

Bianca's Pov

Pain was the first thing I felt when I woke up. It spread from my side, sharp enough to make me suck in a breath, then settled into a dull ache that refused to leave.

My hand stung faintly, the burned skin tight and sensitive, and for a moment I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, not moving.

Then everything came back. The fire, the burned paintings, Dante's disregard for Master D'Angelo, and most of all my dead child.

My fingers curled slightly against the rug as my chest tightened.

I turned my head but no one was there. No one was checking up on me, not even a glass of water was laid out for me. I still remained in the same spot where Celia had knocked me out.

Slowly, I pushed myself up, my body protesting immediately as a sharp pain shot through my ribs. I sucked in a breath, steadying myself until the dizziness passed, then swung my legs over the side of the bed.

The floor felt cold beneath my feet.

As I stepped out of the room, faint voices of the household staff drifted in from down the hallway. The Falcone estate was never truly quiet. Even at rest it hummed with the low activity of people whose job was to see nothing and say less.

I didn't intend to listen, but my feet slowed on their own as the words became clearer.

"…Signora Celia said her foot hurt badly after she kicked Signora Bianca. The Don didn't even hesitate, he carried her out himself."

"That's expected. He looked so worried, like something serious had happened."

"And Signora Bianca?"

There was a brief pause before someone responded, with a dismissive tone.

"She fainted, didn't she? But no one called the family physician. The Don doesn't care about her."

A soft chuckle followed.

"Compared to Signora Celia, she doesn't matter."

I stood there quietly, listening without reacting. The words should have hurt, but they didn't. There was no anger, no tears, just a strange emptiness that spread through me, like something inside me had already shut down.

After a moment, I turned and walked away as if I hadn't heard anything at all.

When I returned to the bedroom, I didn't hesitate. I went straight to the wardrobe and pulled it open.

Rows of neatly arranged clothes stared back at me, each one carefully selected, carefully bought, carefully given. Most of them were from Dante. The clothes he said suited me. The jewelry he claimed reminded him of me. Shoes he insisted I needed even when I said I didn't.

At the time, I thought they were gestures of love. Now, they felt like proof of how blind I had been.

I reached out and picked one. My fingers brushed against the fabric briefly before I folded it neatly and placed it into a box. Then I picked another. Everything he had given me, I separated without hesitation, stacking them carefully as if they still held value, even though they meant nothing to me anymore.

Once I was done, I called out to one of the household staff.

"Arrange for these items to be picked up," I said calmly. "Send some to the orphanage and the rest to the church welfare home."

"Yes, Signora."

I turned back to the wardrobe. This time, I focused on my own things. I packed them into a suitcase. Soon, I'll be out of here.

As I sorted through the lower drawer, my hand paused when my fingers brushed against something hidden beneath a stack of documents. I pulled it out and found a thin envelope that was easy to miss. At first, I opened it without much thought, but as I began to read, my breathing slowed.

Then stopped.

It was a legal document. A letter of forgiveness.

I read it again, more carefully this time, forcing myself to take in every word.

It detailed the staged traffic hit that killed Master D'Angelo. The perpetrator had been identified. The case had been settled quietly, the way the families always settle things. And according to the document, I had signed it myself and agreed to forgive her.

My fingers tightened around the paper. The name written there was Celia.

For a moment, my mind refused to process it. That wasn't possible. Dante had told me the culprit was never found. He had looked me in the eyes and said he would make sure the person responsible paid for it.

I kept reading, my eyes scanning downward until they stopped at the bottom of the page.

My name and signature were there. My chest tightened sharply as my grip on the paper trembled.

I didn't sign this. I was certain of it. I didn't even know Celia was the one who caused the hit, so how could I have forgiven her?

Then suddenly, it clicked.

The island.

The gift Dante had said he prepared for me.

"Just sign here," he had told me with a soft smile. "It's yours."

I hadn't questioned it. I hadn't read it properly. I had trusted him enough to sign without thinking.

A quiet, bitter laugh slipped out before I could stop it.

So that was how he did it. He didn't just hide the truth from me. He used me to bury it.

I could still hear his voice from that day, clear and steady in my mind.

"I will find the person responsible."

I had been standing beside him, crying, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping me together.

"I promise you, Bianca. I won't let them get away with this."

I had believed him completely. Now I understood how wrong I had been.

The culprit had never been missing. She had always been here, living in the same house, standing right beside him, protected by him. And he knew. He had always known.

A surge of anger rose in my chest, stronger than anything I had felt since waking up.

For a moment, I wanted to walk straight out of the house, drag Celia outside, and take her to the cops myself. Let the Falcone name deal with the heat.

I wanted to see her lose everything the same way she had taken everything from me.

But the impulse faded just as quickly as it came.

No, not yet.

My fingers drifted to the pale mark where my wedding ring used to sit. I held there for a breath, feeling the smooth, bare skin. Then I forced my hand away.

I took out my phone and carefully took pictures of every page of the document. Then I made a copy, ensuring everything matched perfectly before placing the original back exactly where I had found it.

Nothing out of place. Nothing that would make them suspicious.

I had just returned to packing when the door opened and Dante's voice broke the silence.

"What are you doing?"

I didn't turn immediately. I folded the clothes in my hand calmly before placing them into the box, then looked up at him.

"These are too old," I said evenly. "I can't use them anymore, so I'm giving them away. Some to the orphanage, some to the church welfare home."

He stepped further into the room, glancing at the boxes, his brows knitting slightly in confusion.

"You're getting rid of all of this?"

"I don't need them," I replied.

He watched me for a moment before nodding, though there was still something uncertain in his expression.

"That's… fine," he said, then after a pause, he added, "About what happened earlier… Celia didn't do it on purpose."

I stilled for a fraction of a second. Even now this was what he chose to say.

"She thought you were going to hit me," he continued, his tone firm. "You know how she is. She reacts without thinking."

I nodded slowly, keeping my expression neutral.

"I understand," I said.

The words came out smooth, without resistance, as if I truly meant them.

Dante seemed to relax slightly at my response, clearly satisfied.

"I knew you would," he said.

I didn't reply. Instead, I reached into the drawer and took out the alliance severance papers.

Then I walked over and handed them to him.

"Sign this."

He glanced at it briefly, not even bothering to read the contents.

"What is it?"

"I want to commission a piece," I said calmly. "A memorial for our dead child."

Something flickered across his face, but it didn't last.

"You can do whatever you want," he said. "But don't dwell on this too much. We'll have children again."

My fingers tightened slightly at his words, but my expression didn't change.

"Sign it," I repeated.

He nodded. He didn't even read it. He simply took the pen and signed his name.

Just like that, three years of marriage reduced to a signature he didn't even care to look at.

I took the document back, my grip steady. In my mind, the words formed clearly.

We will never have children again. We will never have a future.

Before I could say anything else, his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen.

"Celia," his voice softened instantly, "What's wrong? Your foot… I'm coming."

Without another word, he turned and left without hesitation.

I stood there for a long time, the signed paper in my hand, my suitcase half-packed beside me, then I smiled.

Very soon he will wish he had read the document.

Bianca's Pov

After Dante left, I didn't move immediately.

I stood there for a while, the signed document still in my hand, letting the silence settle around me before I finally walked to the desk and picked up my phone.

I dialed Matteo Vitale. The call connected quickly.

"I've signed it," I said calmly. "And so has he. I'll send the documents over now."

"I'll prepare everything on my end," he replied.

"There's something else," I added, my voice lowering slightly. "I found out the truth about my mentor's death."

There was a brief pause on the other end.

"What do you mean?"

"It wasn't an unsolved hit," I said. "The driver confessed. The case was settled quietly. And the person responsible is Celia."

The silence this time was heavier. Through the phone I could hear the faint creak of his chair, and I knew he had leaned forward, the way he always did when the stakes changed.

"I have proof," I continued. "And I want to file suit. Against Dante for burying it. And against Celia for the hit itself."

Matteo Vitale inhaled slowly. "Understood. We'll proceed carefully."

"I'm leaving soon," I said. "On the day I leave, I want everything to come out. I want the truth exposed."

"It will be done."

I ended the call and immediately sent him the scanned alliance severance papers along with the evidence I had copied earlier.

My phone buzzed again. It was a message from Celia.

For a moment, I stared at the screen without opening it. I already knew it wouldn't be anything good. She had never sent me anything unless it was meant to hurt.

I almost ignored it but then I picked up my phone and saw it was a video so I opened it.

My fingers hovered over the screen for a second before I pressed play.

The room in the video was familiar. It was the master bedroom of the Falcone estate, my old room, the one she had taken.

The camera angle was careless, as if it had been placed there on purpose just to capture everything.

The sheets were a mess, the lights dim, and both of them were under the covers, bare shoulders exposed, their bodies close enough that there was no need to guess what had just happened.

Celia leaned against Dante's chest, her fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns against his skin.

"Do you think Bianca suspects anything?" she asked softly.

Dante let out a quiet scoff.

"Even if she does, what difference does it make?" he said flatly. "She's not exactly the type to do anything about it."

Celia's lips curved slightly, her tone turning gentle in a way that didn't match her expression.

"Don't say that… she's your wife after all."

Dante didn't hesitate.

"Everything with her feels forced," he said. "Even in bed, she's stiff. Boring."

My grip tightened around the phone.

Celia let out a soft gasp, like she was surprised, but her fingers didn't stop moving against his chest.

"Don't be too hard on her," she murmured. "After all… she's already lost everything."

Her voice was soft, almost kind. But the satisfaction beneath it was unmistakable.

Dante let out a low chuckle. "Let's stop talking about her. Come and ride me, baby girl."

Celia giggled and I watched as she straddled him and the video went dark but their moans still sounded loudly until it ended.

For a moment, I just stared at my reflection on the screen.

Slowly, I let out a breath. Then I smiled faintly. She really thought this would hurt me.

Maybe it would have before my child died. Before they burned everything I had left of Gabriel D'Angelo. Before I learned the truth.

Now… it felt distant. Like watching two strangers.

If anything, she had just handed me more evidence.

I saved the video immediately and forwarded it to Matteo Vitale without hesitation.

Let her provoke me. Soon, she would understand what it cost.

I had just set my phone down when the door burst open.

"Why are you still here?!"

My mother's voice cut sharply through the room as she walked in, my father following closely behind.

"You should be in the kitchen!" she snapped. "Celia just gave birth. She needs proper nutrition. Where is the soup?"

I looked at them quietly. Not a single question about my condition. Not a single glance at my injuries.

Just Celia. Always Celia.

"You've always been useless," my father added coldly. "If you can't even take care of your sister properly, what use are you?"

I held their gaze for a moment before lowering my eyes slightly.

"I'll go make it now," I said calmly.

My mother huffed. "It should have been done already."

I didn't respond. There was no need to argue and make them suspect my plans of leaving so I simply turned and walked out.

By evening they were all back. Celia, Dante, and my Marchetti. I set the dining table for them with the soup I'd made. The kitchen still smelled of simmered bones and rosemary, and through the archway I could see the bodyguard stationed at the front hall shift his weight, bored, his holster catching the light for half a second.

Celia sat beside Dante, leaning slightly against him, her expression soft and delicate.

My mother kept placing food into her bowl.

"Eat more," she said gently. "You need to recover."

My father nodded. "You've done well giving birth. This family finally has an heir."

An heir.

The word lingered in the air. I lowered my gaze to my plate. My fingers drifted beneath the table to the pale mark where my wedding ring used to sit, pressing it once before I forced my hand flat against my knee.

Across from me, Dante reached out and adjusted Celia's position slightly, his voice soft.

"Be careful. Don't strain yourself."

Celia smiled at him sweetly. "I'm fine. As long as you're here."

My grip on the spoon tightened slightly. Then Celia suddenly looked at me.

"Sister," she said softly, "thank you for making the soup. It really helped."

Her eyes met mine. There was no gratitude in them, only mockery.

"I'm glad it helped," I replied calmly.

She smiled wider. "You've always been so considerate. Even after everything, you still take care of me."

My mother sighed. "That's how she should be. You're her sister."

I didn't say anything, I simply continued eating.

After dinner, I went upstairs. I had just reached the corridor when I heard footsteps behind me.

"Bianca."

It was Celia's voice.

I turned slightly. She stood at the top of the stairs, watching me with that same smile. Her thumbnail pressed into the base of her palm, a small crescent of pressure she didn't seem to notice.

"Are you really okay?" she asked softly. "After everything?"

"I'm fine," I replied.

She stepped closer.

"That's surprising," she said lightly. "I thought you'd be more… broken."

I said nothing.

Her expression darkened slightly.

"You always act like this," she continued. "Like nothing affects you. It's annoying."

Still, I didn't react.

Something in her eyes flickered. "Fine, you'll regret this."

Then suddenly she screamed. Her body tilted backward as if she had lost her balance and in the next second, she fell down the stairs.

"Ah—!"

Her cry echoed through the house.

I stood there, unmoving as footsteps rushed toward us.

"Celia!" Dante's voice was filled with panic as he ran forward, dropping to her side.

She clutched his arm, tears streaming down her face.

"Dante… she pushed me…" she sobbed. "I didn't do anything… I just wanted to talk… to apologize…"

His head snapped up, his gaze locking onto me. Rage filled his eyes.

"What did you do?!" he shouted.

Before I could respond, he stood abruptly and walked past me into the room.

My heart skipped when I saw what he picked up.

The urn. Gabriel D'Angelo's ashes.

My breath stopped.

Dante held it in his hand, his expression cold. The gold saint medal he always turned across his knuckles was nowhere in sight, pocketed or forgotten. His hand was perfectly still around the porcelain.

"Apologize," he said. "Right now."

My chest tightened.

"Put it down," I said, my voice trembling slightly.

"Apologize to Celia," he repeated. "Or I'll smash it."

Something inside me cracked.

"Dante, don't—"

"Apologize!"

"I'm sorry!" I said quickly, my voice breaking. "I didn't push her. I'm sorry!"

But it didn't matter. The urn slipped from his hand and shattered on the ground.

The sound echoed louder than anything else. For a moment, I couldn't breathe. I stared at the ashes scattered across the floor, my mind going blank.

Then the pain hit. It was so overwhelming that my knees weakened slightly as I took a step forward, my hands trembling.

"No…"

My voice came out barely above a whisper.

That was all I had left, all that remained of him. Now it was gone… again.

I dropped to my knees, my fingers shaking as I tried to gather the ashes, but they slipped through my hands just like everything else had.

Dante stared at me, a stunned look on his face.

"Bianca, I didn't—" he started to say but Celia cried louder behind me.

"Dante, it hurts…"

He turned immediately, all his attention shifting back to her as he ignored me.

"It's okay," he said softly. "I'm here."

I remained on the floor, surrounded by what was left of my mentor.

For the first time since waking up, the numbness cracked. Tears fell silently as my shoulders trembled.

But no one saw and no one cared because to them, I had already lost everything.

If only they knew how wrong they were.