"Adriana, please. Don't do this. You have to calm down!" Lucia held my trembling body so tightly she was nearly crushing me into her arms. Her tears splashed hot against my back, scalding. "I promise you, the police will handle this properly. Those monsters who hurt the children, every last one of them will pay! The Falcone Family won't let this go. Grandfather won't let this go. Elena Moretti and Rosalia Moretti won't have suffered for nothing. We'll make them pay in blood!"

Her comfort was warm and urgent, but to my ears, it was nothing but bitter irony and despair.

I went limp in her arms, sliding to the floor. My gaze locked onto the men in dark Nardellis huddled in the corner. Them. Yesterday, they had dragged my children into that van with their own hands. They had tortured my five-year-old babies to death.

At first, my earlier breakdown seemed to have frightened them into silence. But now, seeing me drained of strength, nothing left but bloodshot eyes, they grew bold again. Contempt crept across their faces. One of them curled his lip and let out a low, mocking snort.

"Tch. What a hassle." The one who looked like their crew leader spat on the floor, his gaze sweeping over me with open disdain. His voice dripped with cold deflection. "Maybe if you'd done your job as a mother and raised them right? Spoiled rotten at that age, no respect for their elders. That's exactly why they were sent to St. Lazarus. A little discipline never hurt anyone."

Another man chimed in, his tone even more vicious: "The house has always believed in 'spare the rod, spoil the child.' Other kids can take it just fine. How were we supposed to know your two little girls were so fragile? One day of training and they gave out. Rotten luck, that's what this is, and now we're the ones dealing with the fallout!"

"What did you just say?!" My head snapped up. My fingers curled so tight my nails dug into my palms, drawing blood I couldn't feel. Fragile. Hassle. Each word was a poisoned blade, plunging into my heart, shredding what little sanity I had left. Rage and hatred detonated inside me, flooding through my veins, burning through every limb until my whole body felt like it was on fire. I wanted to lunge at them, tear the flesh from their bones, grind their skeletons to dust.

"You... you animals!" My voice came out shredded, like a broken bell. Every word was soaked in blood and tears. My body shook like a candle guttering in the wind. "My children were five years old. Five. What could they possibly understand? They were just babies! How could you do this to them? How dare you! I'll kill you. I'll make you pay for their lives!"

I tried to claw my way up, but Lucia held me down. Then a violent surge of copper flooded my throat, choking me. My chest seized like a boulder had been dropped on it, the pain blinding. The next second, my mouth opened and a spray of bright red blood burst out, spattering across the cold stone floor like blossoms of desperate, blood-red plum flowers, searing to look at.

My vision blurred. I could still hear Lucia's anguished screams, the men's panicked whispers, but I couldn't hold on anymore. My eyes fell shut, and I plunged into endless darkness, where even hatred became a distant thing.

When I woke again, the familiar scent of sandalwood filled my nose. Not the antiseptic smell of a clinic, but the distinctive fragrance of the Falcone estate. I opened my eyes slowly. Above me was the carved ceiling I knew so well. On the nightstand, a lamp cast a soft amber glow. Warm light that couldn't touch the ice in my heart.

Lucia was curled up in the chair beside my bed, her eyes swollen like walnuts, dried tear tracks still visible on her face. Her hair was a mess, exhaustion carved deep beneath her eyes. She must have been watching over me for hours. The moment I stirred, she jolted awake and leaned in close, her eyes lighting up with relief and heartache. "Adriana! You're awake? Oh thank God, you're finally awake. You scared me half to death!"

She reached out to feel my forehead. Only after confirming I had no fever did she exhale and continue: "Don't worry, we've been on top of the police. Grandfather made the calls himself." Her voice dropped the way it always did when she invoked Salvatore Falcone's authority, as though the old Don's name alone could bend the law like a loaded envelope passed under a precinct desk. "Everyone at that compound, the administrators, the staff who laid hands on them, they're all in custody now. We won't show any mercy this time. We'll make sure they face the consequences. We'll get justice for Elena and Rosalia!"

I turned my head slowly, my hollow gaze drifting to the ceiling. Empty. As if my soul had been ripped out, leaving only a broken shell behind.

Justice? What was justice? My children were dead. Their bodies covered in bruises. I never even got to say goodbye. Even if every last one of those people rotted in the joint, my babies weren't coming back. Justice was just a lie we told ourselves. My thumb found the edge of the ash locket at my throat and pressed there, hard, until the metal bit into the pad of my finger like a second pulse.

"Please..." My voice floated out thin and numb, like something drifting up from the depths of hell. "Let me go, Lucia. I have nothing left. My children are gone. What's the point of being alive? I don't want anything. Not compensation from the Falcone Family, not your so-called justice. I just want to leave. I want to get away from here. Away from everything connected to Maeve..."

Lucia's hand froze mid-motion, the joy draining from her face, leaving only raw heartache.

She knew. She understood what I'd already accepted in my bones—those monsters at St. Lazarus were guilty, yes, but the one who truly pushed my children into hell, who killed them with his own hands, was never anyone else.

It was their father. Maeve Falcone.

If he hadn't favored Vanessa. If he hadn't refused to listen. If he hadn't signed that agreement with his own hand, sending my babies to that place, my Elena and Rosalia would still be curled in my arms right now, calling me Mama.

The one truly responsible had always been Maeve.

Lucia pressed her lips together, her eyes reddening again. She reached out and gently took my ice-cold hand. Warmth seeped from her fingertips into mine, but it couldn't thaw the frozen wasteland inside me. After a long silence, she seemed to steel herself, her voice both firm and tender: "Alright, Adriana. I promise you. I'll go talk to Grandfather right now. No matter what he says, I'll help you. I'll get you out of here, away from all of this, so you can finally breathe."

I watched her walk away, that slender, determined silhouette like a lifeline thrown into dark water. But even a lifeline couldn't pull back a heart already shattered beyond repair. I couldn't hold it in anymore. The sobs tore out of me, muffled and desperate, as if I were purging every last drop of grievance, agony, and injustice I'd swallowed over the years. Tears soaked the pillowcase, cold against my skin, matching the chill that had settled into my very bones.

Memories surfaced unbidden, distant and warm, from another lifetime.

I was eight years old when I first came to the Falcone household. That year, Maeve was eight too. Salvatore Falcone and my grandfather had been bound by something older than friendship, a loyalty forged in the worst years of the syndicate wars, when a bullet meant for Salvatore found my grandfather's shoulder instead. Between them existed a bond sealed in blood. A debt the Falcones could never fully repay.

My parents died in separate incidents shortly after I was born. I grew up at my grandfather's side. Vittorio Moretti was all the family I had. But fate is cruel. When I was eight, he passed away too, leaving me utterly alone. It was Salvatore who honored that old blood debt. Despite resistance from his own family, he brought me into the Falcone compound and raised me like his own granddaughter, cherished and protected.

I still remember those first days. I was timid, afraid to speak, afraid to meet anyone's eyes, always shrinking into corners of that enormous house where soldiers stood at every door and conversations stopped when I entered a room. It was Lucia who sought me out, took my hand, and grinned at me: "Adriana, this is your home now. I'm your little sister. Anyone gives you trouble, I'll make them pay!" And it was Salvatore who brought me treats every day, sat with me while I did homework, patted my head and said gently, "Don't be afraid, child. Grandpa's here."

Only Maeve hated me from the start. He called me "charity case" in front of everyone, threw my belongings out of the house, tormented me at every turn, insisted I didn't belong in the Falcone name. But Salvatore always scolded him sharply, and Lucia always defended me. Eventually, Maeve learned to keep his cruelty quieter, though his contempt never faded.

All these years, Salvatore and Lucia treated me as true family, as one of their own. They gave me warmth, gave me something to hold onto, showed me what home could feel like. So seven years ago, when Salvatore suggested a blood alliance between me and Maeve, I agreed.

I told myself it didn't matter that Maeve didn't love me. It didn't matter that there was no romance between us. If I was good to him, kept the household running smoothly, gave him children, surely, someday, he would see my devotion. Surely he would soften, even just a little.

I told myself that even without love, even with a life that was merely ordinary, as long as I had my two precious daughters, as long as I could watch them grow, my life would have meaning. It wouldn't have been lived in vain.

I poured everything into my children, into this home. Maeve was rarely there. His heart belonged to Vanessa. I swallowed it. I accepted it.

But never, never did I imagine that all my patience, all my hoping, would lead to this.

My two baby girls. The treasures I'd cradled in my palms for five years. Their own father signed them away to hell, where they were tortured to death.

And him? He was out celebrating his precious Vanessa's pregnancy with his child, toasting the future heir while my daughters lay in ashes.

Now I had nothing. No family. No children. No love. No home.

Only endless pain. Bottomless despair. And hatred carved into my bones.

My thumb found the edge of the ash locket at my throat and pressed until the metal bit into skin. I don't know how long I cried. My voice went hoarse, then silent. The tears dried up, leaving only the raw burn behind my eyes.

The door opened softly. Lucia stepped in, weariness etched on her face, but also a flicker of relief: "Adriana, Grandfather wants to see you. He has something to say."

I slowly sat up, my body still ice-cold, my hands and feet numb. Lucia supported me as we walked out of the room, step by step, toward Salvatore's bedroom. Each step felt like treading on knife points, the pain making my whole body tremble.

Pushing open the door, I found Salvatore sitting in the old wooden chair by his bed. His hair seemed to have whitened even more, his back more hunched, his face etched with exhaustion and heartache. In his eyes lingered a deep, unmistakable guilt. His signet ring sat untouched on his finger. He did not roll it.

When he saw me enter, he slowly raised his hand, gesturing for me to come closer. I walked to him and stopped, head bowed, unable to meet his gaze. I was afraid to see the pain in his eyes, afraid to see his guilt, and even more afraid that the emotions I'd barely managed to suppress would come flooding out again.

"Good child," Salvatore's voice was hoarse and weary, heavy with helplessness and remorse. He reached out and gently took my ice-cold hand in his. His fingers were still warm. "You're a good child. You've been wronged. Lucia told me everything. All these years inside the Falcone household, you've suffered far too much. I failed to raise that boy right. I've failed you, failed your grandfather, and failed those two poor children, Elena and Rosalia."

His voice caught, and tears slid down the creases of his weathered face, dropping onto the back of my hand, scalding hot.

"Tomorrow is the cremation," Salvatore took a deep breath, his tone heavy. "Once it's done, if you want to leave, then leave. I won't stop you. That boy doesn't deserve you. He shouldn't hold you back any longer, shouldn't make you suffer anymore. What the Falcone Family owes you, owes those children, we can never repay it. Not in this lifetime."

I lifted my head and looked at his aged face, at the guilt and heartache in his eyes. Tears welled up again, unstoppable.

I said nothing. I only bowed deeply. As I bent at the waist, tears fell in heavy drops onto the wooden floor, each one landing with a soft sound, each one carrying my endless pain and gratitude.

I was grateful for Salvatore's twenty-some years of care, grateful for his love and protection all these years, grateful for his understanding now. But I also knew this gratitude could never outweigh the hatred in my heart. I could forgive everyone in the Falcone Family. Everyone except Maeve. I could never forgive the man who had killed my children with his own hands. Never forgive the man who had destroyed my life.

After the bow, I straightened up. Still without a word, I turned and walked out of Salvatore's bedroom.

Back in my own room, the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open gently, and the moment I saw who was inside, the blood in my veins froze solid.

Maeve was sitting on the edge of my bed. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, his hair combed without a strand out of place. There was no guilt on his face, no grief. Only thick contempt and mockery. A soldier stood in the hallway behind me, close enough to hear everything, far enough to pretend he couldn't. When Maeve saw me enter, he slowly lifted his head, his lips curling into a cruel smile, his voice sharp and grating:

"What's this? Just came back from the Don's room? Couldn't wait to go running to him with your complaints?"

He stood and walked toward me, step by step, the disgust and derision in his eyes completely unconcealed.

"Do you actually believe that if you sweet-talk my grandfather, sweet-talk my sister, I'll suddenly see you differently? That I'll settle down and play house with you?"

The moment I saw Maeve, hatred surged through me like a tidal wave, drowning everything else. I wanted to kill him right then and there. I wanted to send him straight to hell.

The hatred coiled around my heart like poisonous vines, squeezing until I could barely breathe. I stared at his hypocritical, vicious face, my nails digging so deep into my palms that blood seeped out. I didn't even feel it. My mind was filled with nothing but the urge to tear him apart.

But in the next instant, two small voices, soft and sweet, pierced through my surging hatred like a needle, gentle yet sharp, drilling into my ears as clearly as if they were right beside me.

Those were the countless nights when the girls had nestled in my arms, their little hands clinging tightly to my arm, their cheeks nuzzling against mine as they wheedled for attention.

Elena, the older one, blinking those big round eyes, her voice soft as cotton: "Mommy, I love Daddy so much. Daddy's the most handsome daddy in our whole kindergarten, even more handsome than Daisy's daddy!"

Rosalia nodding along, her little head bobbing back and forth: "Mommy, we miss Daddy so much. Is Daddy coming home for dinner tonight? We drew a picture of Daddy. We want to give it to him."

Every time Maeve's coldness cut me and I'd cry in secret, those two little ones would reach out with their chubby hands to wipe my tears away, their voices chiming together: "Mommy, you're our favorite person in the whole wide world! Daddy's second favorite. We'll be good. We won't make Daddy mad. We won't make Mommy sad."

And that last time, when I'd fought my way into that hellish compound and finally found them, their bodies covered in wounds, barely clinging to life, even then, the moment they saw me, they'd used their last shred of strength to grab the hem of my clothes, their voices faint as dying embers: "Mommy, we're sorry... Please don't fight with Daddy because of us. We weren't good. We didn't listen. We shouldn't have made Aunt Vanessa unhappy. Don't blame Daddy..."

Those voices, so gentle, so heartbreakingly understanding, sliced at my heart like dull blades, over and over, until I could barely breathe. Hatred and anguish twisted together, threatening to tear me in two.

I drew a deep breath, filling my chest with cold air, forcing down the crimson rage flooding my vision and the hatred threatening to consume me. My thumb found the edge of the ash locket at my throat and pressed against it until the metal bit into skin. I didn't look at Maeve. I didn't respond to a single word he'd said. I walked straight to the bed and sat down stiffly, my back ramrod straight, like a statue without a soul.

When he saw me ignore his mockery, when I refused to speak, the sneer on Maeve's face vanished instantly, replaced by thick irritation and impatience. He crossed the distance between us in a few strides, his eyes dark and menacing. Before I could react, he grabbed my arm with crushing force, hard enough to grind bone, and flung me onto the bed.

The mattress let out a muffled thud. My head spun from the impact. Before I could struggle, he was already pressing down on me, his hands clamping my wrists above my head, pinning them there with such force that pain shot through my arms. I couldn't move.

"What game are you playing now, Adriana?" Maeve's face hovered inches from mine, his warm breath washing over my skin, yet it carried nothing but bone-deep coldness and revulsion. "Weren't you the one who had Lucia call me? Crying and begging for me to come back? And now that I'm here, you're playing mute? Trying the hard-to-get routine with me?"