At the hospital, the doctor stared at my CT scans, his expression grim.

"Madam, the impact caused the shrapnel near your spine to shift. It’s compressing the nerve. This is critical. We need to operate immediately."

He looked around. "Where is your family? We need a signature."

The nurse took my phone and dialed Lorenzo.

First time: Declined.

Second time: No answer.

Third time: He finally picked up, his voice booming with irritation.

"What is it now? Sofia has low blood sugar; I'm sitting with her while she gets an IV drip! Can you stop harassing me?"

Click. The line went dead.

The nurse held the phone, looking at me with pity. "Madam... I..."

I reached out calmly and took the surgical consent form. In the signature box, I pressed down hard, signing the name I hadn't used in fifteen years: Isabella Corleone.

"I'll sign it. My life is my own responsibility."

The surgery lasted four hours.

When I was wheeled back to the recovery room, the anesthesia still making the world spin, Lorenzo finally appeared.

He looked at the tubes hooked up to my body, a flicker of shock crossing his face. But it was quickly replaced by his usual condescending arrogance.

"Why the drama? The doctor said you had surgery?"

He shook his head, sighing. "I told you to keep up with your combat training. One little fall and look at you. Sofia is still under observation next door, but I made time to come see you."

I closed my eyes. I didn't even want to look at him.

"Lorenzo. I want a divorce."

The air in the room solidified.

Lorenzo’s eyes widened in disbelief, and then he scoffed.

"Isabella, are you insane? You're asking for a divorce over this?"

"I pushed you a little, so what? Sofia fainted! I was trying to save a life! Can you stop being so selfish for once?"

He waved his hand aggressively. "Okay, fine. The anesthesia has clearly fried your brain. You stay here and cool off. Don't test my patience."

He turned to leave. "When you're better, come back to the estate. But don't expect me to pamper you."

I watched his back as he walked out. I almost laughed.

Come back to the estate?

Lorenzo, you won't have an estate to go back to.

The next day, the door to my hospital room swung open.

It wasn't Lorenzo. It was my two "wonderful" children, Leo and Mia.

They brought no flowers. No fruit. Just a cold stack of legal documents.

"Mom, we heard you're divorcing Dad?"

Leo threw the papers onto my bed, his tone laced with suspicion and greed.

"Auntie Sofia said Dad risked his life to build this empire. If you want to leave, you leave with nothing."

Mia crossed her arms, looking at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. "Exactly. Don't think you're getting a cent of our inheritance. This is a 'Voluntary Renunciation of Family Inheritance.' Sign it."

"If you sign it, we'll still acknowledge you as our mom. We'll even send you a monthly allowance so you can rot in the countryside."

I looked at them. They had my blood, but they acted like scavenging hyenas.

I smiled. A genuine smile.

These were the children I had sacrificed everything for.

"Fine. I'll sign."

I picked up a pen. But I didn't sign their waiver.

Instead, I flipped the document over and drafted two new agreements in bold, sweeping strokes—Termination of Parental Rights.

Next to them, I placed the Divorce Agreement I had already prepared. I had already signed it. Under the asset division section, I had clearly written: Walk away with nothing.

I didn't want a single penny of Lorenzo's dirty money.

Without me, that money wouldn't exist anyway.

"Take these and get out."

I threw the papers in their faces.

The kids froze, then grabbed the signed documents. Thinking I had actually capitulated out of fear, they cheered and ran out of the room like they had won the lottery.

That afternoon, I discharged myself.

Downstairs, outside the hospital entrance, a convoy of matte black, bulletproof Maybach Guards idled in perfect formation. On the hood of the lead car fluttered the flag that symbolized the highest authority in Sicily.

Dozen of heavily armed mercenaries, wearing dark sunglasses and earpieces, stood with their hands behind their backs.

As I stepped out, the lead figure—the family’s Consigliere, an old man who had served my father—stepped forward. He bowed deeply, reverently kissing the back of my hand.

"Il Papa," he whispered, using the supreme title. "The private jet to Palermo is ready."

Back in the hospital room, on the pristine white pillow, I had left a final note for Lorenzo.

On top of the note sat a black coin—the underworld symbol for a death warrant.

The note read:

"Lorenzo, the protection I gave you ends today."

It was time to return to the shadows. It was time to reclaim my throne.