Before Luca could even find his voice, Matteo, the second brother, snatched the phone away. As the family’s Consigliere, he was naturally suspicious and an expert at sniffing out lies.

"Don't listen to this 'cop's' bullshit, Luca. This is ridiculous. If she’s hiring actors, she’s doing a piss-poor job. Everyone knows the Falcone and Caruso families are merging. No one would be stupid enough to touch her today."

Matteo let out a cold laugh, hung up, and tossed the phone back on the table.

"Elena is just trying to make us panic. She’s using this extreme stunt to compete with Isabella for attention. She’s mimicking Isabella’s 'disappearance' from back then, fishing for a reaction. Luca, ignore her."

Dante sat nearby, cleaning his Glock. He nodded in agreement; he trusted Matteo’s judgment implicitly.

Watching their cold, indifferent faces from the air, I felt as if my heart was being pierced by a Siberian wind.

Isabella was their precious jewel, but wasn't I Falcone blood too?

Years ago, Isabella had been snatched by enemies during a chaotic family gathering.

My mother was devastated. During those dark years, she sought comfort and, two years later, gave birth to me.

It wasn't until Isabella was eighteen that the family used every resource they had to find her and bring her back from the slums.

In their eyes, my birth was just a replacement—an error meant to fill a void.

Until I was thirteen, I was the only princess of the family.

But everyone, from my parents to the bodyguards, constantly reminded me: Everything you have was supposed to be Isabella’s. If she hadn't been lost, you wouldn't even be here.

When Isabella returned, she always wore old clothes and told stories of the abuse and hunger she suffered in foster care.

Those stories were like whips against the hearts of my parents and brothers, compounding their guilt over my existence.

From then on, every rule in the Falcone house was rewritten to favor Isabella.

Isabella stood to the side with red-rimmed eyes, looking like a frightened fawn.

Lorenzo stepped forward and gently took her hand.

"Don't blame yourself, Bella. This has nothing to do with you."

"My engagement to Elena was always a forced business arrangement. This gives me and her a chance to re-evaluate whether this relationship even needs to exist."

And Lorenzo’s idea of "re-evaluating" was spending this storm-tossed weekend indulging Isabella.

I drifted there, watching Lorenzo pamper her with tender devotion.

In the past, every time Lorenzo ditched me for Isabella, I would scream and demand answers like a madwoman.

I could handle my brothers being biased, but Lorenzo was my fiancé—my only anchor in this cold family.

Why did he always put me second?

Back then, Lorenzo would just light a cigarette and look at me with boredom. "Elena, she’s your sister. She suffered out there. Being good to her is how I make up for what you were given while she had nothing. Do you get it?"

It wasn't until evening, when the sunset stained the estate a bloody red, that Lorenzo’s private phone finally rang.

His brow relaxed, and a mocking smirk played on his lips.

"What? Finally remembered me? You hid all day, and now you’re finally crawling back to apologize?"

But it wasn't me on the other end. It was his lead soldato, sounding frantic.

"Boss, we’ve searched the whole city. Miss Elena didn't go back to the Falcone estate, and she’s not at your penthouse... There’s no word of a kidnapping or ransom on the black market either..."

Lorenzo cut him off angrily.

"If you haven't found her, why the hell are you calling me? You’re all useless!"

He slammed the phone down. Isabella, who had clearly overheard, swirled her red wine and gave a soft, mocking laugh.

"My sister never really had any 'respectable' friends. She’s a bride-to-be who didn't go home or to your place last night... where do you think she could have gone?"

Isabella lowered her voice, her tone laced with poison:

"She couldn't be at one of those... filthy nightclubs, could she? I heard she’s been under a lot of stress... It would be so immature of her to do something that brings shame to the family name."

Lorenzo’s handsome features twisted into a deep scowl. Family honor was everything to him.

"Enough. Elena might be bratty, but she wouldn't stoop that low."

Seeing Lorenzo’s bad mood, Isabella immediately retracted her claws, tears flowing on command.

"It’s my fault. I was just so worried about her that my mind started racing."

"I’m always so stupid, I’ve upset you again..."

As soon as Isabella started crying, the three brothers turned into killing machines, their eyes snapping toward Lorenzo with lethal intent.

"That’s enough, Lorenzo. Isabella didn't say anything wrong. Why are you snapping at her?"

"You can't even keep your own fiancée in line. Why are you taking it out on Bella?"

Isabella quickly stepped between them and Lorenzo, looking pathetic and fragile.

"Don't blame Lorenzo, brothers, I was the one who spoke out of turn..."

Before she could finish, her eyes fluttered shut, and her body went limp.

Lorenzo’s pupils dilated as he caught her in his arms.

"Bella!"

Lorenzo carried the unconscious Isabella into his downtown penthouse, speeding the whole way.

After settling her into the guest room, he loosened his tie, but his eyes instinctively began searching the empty apartment.

We’d been together for five years; I knew exactly what he was looking for.

He was looking for the glass of whiskey I’d have waiting for him every night. He was looking for the steaming hot bath I’d have drawn. He was looking for the woman who always kept a light on for him, no matter how late it got.

I hovered by the crystal chandelier, watching him pace irritably through the rooms, finding nothing but cold, expensive furniture.

A moment later, he pulled out his phone and stared at our empty chat log.

It was pathetic.

Now he remembers me?

Or maybe this is just the way men like him work. Now that there’s no one to play maid and waitress, no fiancé at his beck and call, he finally realizes something is missing.

Lorenzo hesitated for a long time before making a decision. His fingers tapped aggressively on the screen as he sent a text in that same commanding tone:

“Enough with the drama. Get back here. If you show up right now, I’ll overlook your little disappearing act from last night.”

Watching those words appear, my soul shuddered. Ghostly tears fell before I could stop them.

This was the difference between being loved and being tolerated.

Even when I was dead, in his world, I was still the one in the wrong.

Just then, Isabella’s weak voice called out from the guest room. Lorenzo instantly shoved his phone away, wiped the irritation from his face, and walked in with a look of pure tenderness.

Isabella was propped up against the headboard, pale-faced but with eyes that knew exactly how to hook him.

"Lorenzo... are you still mad at me?"

Lorenzo sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head with a sigh as he stroked her cheek.

"How could I ever be mad at you? You know I can never say no to you."

Right in the middle of that sweet moment, the landline in the living room shrieked.

It was the hardline—the one reserved for police business or official emergencies.

A spark of hope lit up Lorenzo’s eyes. He clearly thought I was calling to crawl back to him. But the moment he picked up, his expression turned as dark as a stagnant pool.

The voice on the other end was professional and completely devoid of emotion.

"Is this Mr. Lorenzo Caruso? This is the NYPD Major Crimes Unit."

"We discovered a female body in an abandoned slaughterhouse in Brooklyn earlier today. Dental records have confirmed the identity of the deceased as your fiancée, Ms. Elena Falcone."

"The victim was subjected to inhuman torture before death. We’ve been unable to reach the heads of the Falcone family. We need you to come down to the precinct immediately to—"

Before the officer could finish, Lorenzo ripped the phone cord out of the wall.

With a violent crack, he smashed the handset into pieces against the floor.

"Elena, you crazy bitch! You’re really taking this act all the way!"

Lorenzo’s chest heaved, the rage in his eyes enough to burn the building down.

Isabella walked out of the bedroom barefoot. Hearing his outburst, her beautiful eyes darted around for a second before she wrapped her arms around Lorenzo’s waist from behind.

"Lorenzo, don't be angry... If my sister doesn't want to marry you, don't force her."

"You know... I’ve always been so jealous of her. Jealous that she got to have you..."

Before she even finished the sentence, Isabella stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against Lorenzo’s.

Lorenzo went rigid for a split second.

But soon, fueled by alcohol and pure spite, he took control. He scooped Isabella up and pinned her down onto the living room sofa.

"You’re right," he growled. "She didn't know how good she had it."

I watched the scene in a trance.

My body wasn't even cold yet, and my fiancé was having sex with my own sister on the very sofa I had picked out for our home.

The tragedy of my life hit its peak in that moment.

The pain was so sharp that I eventually went numb.

I tried with everything I had to turn away, to flee this disgusting hellscape.

But my soul was pinned to the spot. I was forced to watch them tangle together, listening to their breathing, watching Isabella shoot a provocative look into the empty air—almost as if she knew I was watching.

I don't know how much time passed before a sudden, violent pounding erupted at the front door.

Lorenzo was interrupted. Infuriated, he grabbed a sofa cushion and hurled it toward the door.

The pounding didn't stop.

Lorenzo pushed Isabella off him, threw on a shirt, and stomped to the door, his face twisted with murderous intent. He swung it open.

"You want to die? Who the hell do you think you are, kicking my—"

The words died in his throat the moment he saw who was outside.

It wasn't a patrol cop. It was a squad of FBI agents in full tactical gear and stone-faced detectives from Major Crimes.