The sight of them together made my stomach churn. Vittorio’s entire focus was on Valeria—the Don who ruled the Morrano syndicate like a tyrant now moving with tenderness, shielding her with his body, watching her every breath. He had not shown even a fraction of that care toward his own son in years. The comparison alone was enough to make my fingers shake with rage.

“So this is how you want it,” I said, forcing the words out through a tight throat. “You’ve been wishing I’d disappear for a long time, haven’t you? Good. Your wish just came true. I’m done. I’m walking out.”

He had never chosen me. Our marriage existed only because two crime families needed unity, because tradition demanded a bride for the Don. He stayed with me out of obligation, not love. In his eyes I was a duty stamped onto his life by old rules. He never acknowledged my place beside him, never nurtured the bond between us. Years of neglect had worn me down until even my own sense of self felt fragile, as if the part of me that once had strength was fading away.

The heirloom was the only thing that might have saved what was left of me. It was no trinket—it was a sacred relic handed down to the eldest child in my bloodline, entrusted to my care. I had always known what it could do, yet I had never dared to awaken its power. Every gift demands a price, and I was terrified of what that price might be.

Vittorio, as usual, twisted my words into something ugly. To him, I was nothing but a bitter wife desperate for his attention. His lip curled in contempt.

“Oh, come on,” he sneered. “Is this your latest performance? You can’t use the kid to guilt-trip me anymore, so now you’re putting on a show yourself?”

A year earlier, Luca had started to fade. His skin lost its color, he barely touched his food, and even the family doctor was baffled. Dark veins crept beneath his flesh, as though his blood were changing from the inside out. He would collapse without warning, over and over again. For a boy born into a dynasty known for its resilience, he couldn’t even shake off a simple headache.

During those endless months I had called Vittorio more times than I could count, begging the Don to come home—if not for me, then for the child who waited every night by the door. He never did. He convinced himself that I was exaggerating, that I was using Luca’s sickness to manipulate him.

After nearly a decade together, this was all I was to him.

I wiped my face and kept my voice even. “Think whatever you like. I’m still leaving.”

I turned, dragging my suitcase toward the exit, when Valeria’s voice floated after me, sugar-sweet with false sympathy.

“Don Vittorio, weren’t you planning to spend Luca’s birthday together?” she asked gently. “You didn’t cancel just to go to the mountains with me, did you? Bianca looks devastated…”

Vittorio answered her instantly, not a hint of hesitation in his tone.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I know my priorities. A birthday can be made up anytime. But the snow won’t last forever.”

A hollow laugh escaped my lips as I continued pulling my luggage across the floor. Something about my silence must have unsettled him, because he suddenly strode after me and clamped a hand around my wrist, irritation flaring across his face.

“It’s the middle of the night,” he barked. “You’re really choosing now to make a scene and leave?”

Then he noticed my swollen eyes and paused. His voice dropped, almost gentle.

“Is missing one celebration really enough to make you cry like this?”

For a heartbeat I thought I saw something close to sympathy in his gaze.

“I’ll clear my calendar next month,” he added. “I’ll take Luca out then. That should settle things.”

Next month.

What kind of next month was left for Luca?

If he had possessed even a shred of real concern, he would never have said something so cruel. I tore my hand free.

“There’s no need,” I replied flatly.

He stared at his empty hand in disbelief. The woman who had once endured everything in silence was now recoiling from him like he was poison. He stepped toward me again—only for Valeria to clutch his arm.

“This is all on me,” she said hastily, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Even though I knew Luca was just pretending to be sick, I shouldn’t have tried to compete with a child for your attention. Now Bianca is angry because of me.”

Pretending?

Faking it?

My mind went blank. The room tilted, sound draining away. By the time reality slammed back into place, my hand had already swung—striking my sister across the face with a sharp, echoing slap.

The flicker of remorse that had briefly crossed the Don’s face disappeared as though it had never existed, replaced by a frostbitten fury that seemed to drain the warmth from the entire room. Without a moment’s pause, he moved in front of Valeria, positioning her behind his broad frame like a human shield. When he turned back to me, his stare was sharp enough to wound.

“Have you completely lost control of yourself?” he barked. “That woman is your own blood.”

I refused to mirror his anger. My focus stayed fixed on Valeria, my eyes cold and unwavering.

“Be careful with what you say,” I replied quietly. “Sharing blood doesn’t give anyone permission to slander my child.”

Valeria blinked rapidly and shifted closer to Vittorio, her fingers digging into his sleeve as she spoke in a trembling whisper, as though she were the one who had been attacked.

“Don Vittorio, please,” she murmured. “I never intended to drive a wedge between you and my sister. If she insists on denying that Luca was just acting ill, then I won’t argue anymore.”

My chest constricted as I turned back to him, my voice low but steady, drawn from the last fragments of strength I had left.

“So you believe that nonsense as well?” I asked. “You truly think our son was pretending all this time?”

He gave no answer.

That silence screamed louder than any accusation. His gaze drifted through the empty living room, pausing on vacant corners as though he half-expected Luca to suddenly appear, whole and laughing, as if none of this had ever happened.

When he finally spoke, it was with forced composure that barely masked his irritation.

“Where is the boy?” he demanded. “I can’t feel his presence anywhere.”

Those words cut deeper than any insult. He didn’t even trust that Luca had been unwell. If I had possessed even a fraction of his authority, I would have summoned every renowned doctor the syndicate could reach. But as the Don’s wife in name only, my hands had been bound—by old rules and by a husband who refused to listen.

If he had come home even once, he would have seen it all for himself: the cluttered table buried beneath jars of medicine, the bitter scent of herbs in the air, and our son lying pale and drained, fighting a battle he was slowly losing. But Vittorio had never returned. Not a single time.

My mind wandered back to the day Luca had looked at me with eyes far too wise for a child and told me he didn’t think he had much time left. His voice had trembled, frail yet eerily calm. I had clung to hope like a lifeline, but somewhere deep inside, I had already known the truth. His decline had been too fast, too merciless. And still, his last wish hadn’t been for a miracle—he had only asked that we celebrate his birthday together.

That desperation had driven me to Vittorio’s feet.

I could still see myself kneeling in front of him, my pride stripped away completely, clutching his trousers as I begged. I told him this would be the final time I ever asked anything of him. I promised I would step out of his life afterward, that I would set him free, if only he would give Luca that one night.

When he looked down at me, something flickered across his face—surprise, and perhaps something close to relief.

“Are you actually serious?” he had asked, disbelief threading through his voice.

“I am,” I whispered, tears sliding down as I closed my eyes.

I had loved Vittorio from the very first moment I saw him. There had been no reason, no delay—it had simply happened. Everyone around us had known. Even before destiny bound us together, my heart had already chosen him. I followed him everywhere, did everything I could to earn even a scrap of his attention.

My devotion didn’t soften him. It only made him resent me more.

That resentment had exploded during his coming-of-age ceremony, when fate revealed that I—not Valeria—was meant to stand beside him. He had wanted her. He had always wanted her.

Why hadn’t I walked away then? Why hadn’t I freed him and let them be together? I had been foolish enough to believe loyalty might change him. Because of that hope, he had watched Valeria leave after finding her own destined partner.

My parents had been adamant. One did not reject fate. To abandon a destined bond was unthinkable. And so he was forced into marriage with me, and I became the Don’s wife in title only.

There had been no celebration at our wedding. Vittorio dismissed the idea outright, saying I wasn’t worthy of anything grand.

Years later, when Valeria returned claiming her partner had died, I finally understood how pointless it was to compete with her. I had lost long before I realized I was even fighting.

Only now did I see that my last plea—my promise to leave him alone forever—had been what finally swayed him. He had wanted me gone. Desperately.

But why hadn’t he spared even one final moment for Luca?

Why had he broken that promise?

It was one thing not to love me. I had accepted that long ago. But Luca was his son. His own blood. How could a man be so merciless… so completely devoid of compassion toward his own child?

I fixed my eyes on Vittorio, a crushing sense of disillusionment spreading through my chest. There had been a time when I thought every angle of his face was carved by heaven itself, as if even the moon had paused to admire him. Back then, I would have sworn he was flawless. Now the mere sight of him made my stomach twist. Whatever affection I once carried had long since rotted into disgust.

Vittorio parted his lips as if he were about to speak, but Valeria slipped in ahead of him, her voice laced with practiced weakness.

“Don… my head feels dizzy again,” she whispered. “And my cheek is aching. Could you see if it’s swollen?”

His attention snapped to her instantly, concern lighting his eyes without the slightest delay. Seizing that opening, Valeria leaned heavily into him, letting out a faint breath like she could barely remain upright. The red mark from my hand stood out vividly against her pale skin, a perfect prop for her act.

Tears welled quickly in her eyes. Vittorio reached up and brushed them away with gentle fingers, the familiarity of his touch driving a dull ache straight through my chest. There had been a time when he did the same for me—when he would steady me if I faltered, when his voice softened only in my presence. Those memories felt like fragments from another life.

Then his face hardened. The warmth drained away, leaving only cold authority.

“Bianca,” he said curtly, “you will apologize to your sister.”

I squared my shoulders and raised my chin, refusing to look away.

“No,” I answered.

The word startled him. Once, I would have tiptoed around his temper, desperate for approval that never came. No matter how devoted I was, it was never enough. Valeria always stood higher in his eyes.

Looking back, I realized she had never tried to hide her hostility. Even as children, she resented me for being trusted more, for being capable. That bitterness only grew when the heirloom—the family heirloom she coveted—was passed down to me instead of her.

When she sensed my feelings for Don Vittorio, she began pursuing him too, turning it into a contest she refused to lose. Still, I never imagined she would return after her own partner’s death and shatter my world all over again.

Vittorio’s surprise faded quickly. He leaned back against the sofa, Valeria still cradled in his arms, and spoke in a voice edged with threat.

“Don’t test me, Bianca.”

Seconds later, the syndicate enforcers he had summoned through his private line arrived and blocked my escape. They seized my arms and shoved me back in front of the couple, their grips merciless.

Vittorio lounged as though nothing was amiss, his eyes skimming over me with detached indifference.

“Apologize,” he said again.

Valeria turned to him, a faint curve of triumph on her lips, half-hidden behind false humility.

“It’s fine, Don. She didn’t mean to hurt me.”

He gazed at her with sympathy. “You’re too generous. You’ve always treated her kindly, yet she’s never acted like your sister.”

Then he looked back at me, his stare cutting.

“Anyone who lays a hand on Valeria will pay the price.”

At his subtle signal, the guards forced me down. My knees hit the floor hard. As my head dipped, I caught the slightest hint of satisfaction on his lips. One of the men stepped closer, hand raised, ready to strike.

Valeria’s voice stopped him.

“Don,” she said softly, “she’s still my sister. I’m afraid they might hurt her too badly. If discipline is needed… let me handle it.”

Vittorio gave a brief nod.

Valeria stepped forward and slapped me—once, then again. Her nails raked my skin, leaving stinging lines across my cheek as pain burst through my face.

She turned back to him, feigning uncertainty.

“Don… I’ve hit her. What should we do now?”

His reply was ice-cold. “She deserved it. And you’re still worrying about her after everything.”

The guards released me. My legs buckled and I fell to the floor. Vittorio remained seated, staring down at me without an ounce of regret.

“You still owe Valeria an apology,” he said.

An apology.

She was the one who mocked my son, who accused him of lying. Luca would never lie. Yet this worthless Don always chose her side, no matter how vile the injustice.

I lifted my head and glared at him, my voice thick with fury.

“Keep dreaming.”

Then I screamed, every shred of pain and hatred pouring out. “I despise you, Don Vittorio!”