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?"

His eyes dripped with contempt, his lips curling into a cruel sneer as he leaned in. The reek of alcohol and Vanessa's perfume hit me first, that cloying sweetness coiling around me like something venomous. My stomach lurched. The hatred I'd buried came roaring back.

I thrashed against him, but my strength was nothing compared to his. He had my wrists pinned, my body immobilized, every attempt to break free only making his grip tighten until my bones ached. Somewhere beyond the locked bedroom door, the estate was silent. No soldier would come. No one intervened in the heir's private rooms.

Desperation sharpened into something feral. I lunged forward and sank my teeth into his lip with everything I had.

"Ngh." Maeve grunted, the metallic taste of blood blooming between us. He released me instantly, shoving me back as he scrambled upright. His fingers came away from his mouth smeared red. The look he gave me could have curdled milk. Pure, undiluted venom.

"Adriana! Have you lost your goddamn mind?!" His voice exploded through the room, raw with fury. "You bit me? You, with that pathetic innocent act, that harmless little mask you wear, you think you have the right to touch me? To bite me?"

He glared at me like I was something rotting, his words sharp as broken glass: "Just looking at you makes me sick. This is how you've always operated, isn't it? Playing the wounded doe, wrapping the Don around your finger, making him protect you at every turn. You manipulated him into dragging me back here, and now you're pulling this hard-to-get bullshit? You think I'll fall for it? Pathetic."

His chest heaved. He jabbed a finger at my face, each word a nail driven deeper. His other hand went to his tie, smoothing the knot once, twice, harder each time.

"This is exactly why our daughters turned out the way they did. Learning from you, from that fake helpless act. That's why they had the nerve to disrespect Vanessa in public. That's why they needed to be sent away to St. Lazarus, to learn some discipline, to be taught how to behave!"

"Enough." My voice cracked through his tirade, hoarse, shattered, but cold as steel. I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted iron, using the pain to leash the grief and rage threatening to tear me apart. When I spoke again, each word was deliberate, precise:

"The children are dead."

Maeve's mouth snapped shut. The fury on his face froze, something flickering behind his eyes. Confusion, maybe even a flash of fear. But it lasted only a heartbeat.

Then he laughed. A sharp, mocking sound, dripping with scorn. "Adriana, is there any lie you won't tell? Any line you won't cross?"

He pulled out his phone, swiped the screen a few times, and thrust it in my face. Vanessa's ultrasound report glowed on the display, followed by his social media announcement. "You found out today that Vanessa is carrying my child, didn't you? And now you're so jealous you've gone insane. Making up stories, trying to curse me, desperate to make me feel sorry for you?"

His voice turned to ice. "Is this really how low you'll stoop? Using our daughters to curse me? Adriana, you disgust me. You don't deserve to be their mother. You don't even deserve to speak their names."

He didn't look at me again. He stood, brushing off his clothes as though I'd contaminated him, and walked toward the door. At the threshold, he paused. Didn't turn around. His voice flat with warning:

"You're the one who pushed me away, Adriana. You're the one who didn't want my attention, my affection. So stop running to the Don to complain. Stop playing the victim, crying about how I neglect you, how I mistreat you. It only makes me despise you more. It only makes you look cheaper."

The door slammed. The walls of the estate bedroom seemed to shudder. Silence crashed back into the room, so complete I could hear my own breathing, ragged and hollow. The stench of alcohol and Vanessa's perfume still hung in the air, clinging to everything, making my stomach turn.

I lurched off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. The faucet shrieked as I wrenched it open, icy water thundering into the basin. I grabbed my toothbrush, loaded it with paste, and attacked my lips. Scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing. Again and again, hard enough to tear skin. I needed to erase him. The trace of his breath. The humiliation. The revulsion. Every memory of him that had ever touched me.

The bristles jabbed into my gums. Pain lanced through me. Blood seeped out, its metallic taste mingling with mint, but I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Water ran down my chin, pink with blood and foam, dripping into the white porcelain basin like scattered petals, red as roses left on a grave, beautiful and hopeless.

I raised my head and met my own eyes in the mirror.

Hair tangled. Eyes swollen and rimmed with red. Lips colorless except for the blood at the corners. My gaze, empty. Hollow. Dead.

I looked like something that had crawled out of a grave.

Nothing remained of the woman I used to be. My thumb found the edge of the ash locket at my throat. The metal was warm from my skin. That was the only warmth left in the room.

Unbidden, memories surfaced. Distant, sweet, deliberately buried. I'd locked them away, too afraid to touch them, but now they crashed over me like a relentless tide, pulling me under.

Maeve and I had been in love once. Once, he'd held me in the palm of his hand like something precious.

It was my eighteenth birthday. The Falcone estate garden was filled with white roses — my favorite — and moonlight spilled soft across the lawn, a gentle breeze stirring the petals. Eighteen-year-old Maeve stood among the roses in a crisp white shirt, tall and straight-backed, the tips of his ears burning red, a flush creeping across his cheeks. He clutched a bouquet of white roses so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. He looked shy. Nervous.

He walked toward me, step by step, his gaze steady and deep, his voice carrying the faintest tremor: "Adriana. Happy birthday. You're an adult now."

He held out the roses, his ears so red they might bleed. "I've liked you for a long time. Since you were eight, when you first came to live with us. You hid in the corner, looking at me with those timid eyes — that's when it started. I don't want to just be your brother anymore. I want to take care of you. I want to protect you for the rest of my life. I want you to be my girl." His voice dropped, raw and earnest. "Adriana, give me a chance. Please?"

The devotion in those young eyes, steady as starlight, was intoxicating. In that moment, all my shyness and fear melted into something soft and boundless. I took the roses, their delicate fragrance filling my senses, and looked at him — so bashful, so sincere. Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.

"Yes," I whispered.

After that, Maeve treated me like a princess. He remembered everything — that I hated cilantro, picking every last leaf from my plate at Sunday dinners while the capos' wives pretended not to notice. When my period came, he'd clumsily brew ginger tea with brown sugar to warm my stomach, insisting I finish it even when it tasted terrible. In winter, he'd tuck my hands into his coat pockets, holding them tight. "As long as I'm here," he'd say, "you'll never be cold." When I was sad, he'd pull me into his arms and stroke my back. "Don't be scared. I've got you."

Those days were sweet and warm. I believed the tenderness would last forever. I believed I'd finally found a home of my own, someone who truly loved me. I gave him everything — cooked his meals, managed his life, forgave his moods and temper. Because I loved him.

But the sweetness didn't last.

The year I turned twenty-two, Salvatore called us both into his study. The old Don sat in his leather armchair, espresso cup in hand, his expression grave. The signet ring on his thumb did not move. When he looked at me, his eyes held something like guilt.

"Adriana," he said slowly, "your grandfather saved my life. I've carried that debt every day since. You've had such a hard road — losing your parents so young, then your grandfather too. I couldn't bear to see you married off into some other family where they might mistreat you."

He paused, glancing at Maeve beside him. "You two grew up together. You love each other. You're both of age now." He set down his cup. "Why not formalize the alliance? It would put my mind at ease — and honor your grandfather's memory."

I was overjoyed. I thought this was the culmination of our love story.

I had no idea that from the moment those words left Salvatore's mouth, everything would change.

Maeve's warmth vanished overnight. The tenderness, the devotion, the lingering looks — gone, as if they'd never existed.

He stopped being gentle. Stopped remembering what I liked. Stopped spending time with me. He could barely stand to look at me. I didn't understand. I racked my brain trying to figure out what I'd done wrong, why he'd become this stranger. I asked him, begged him to explain, but he never gave me a reason. He just looked at me with cold, distant eyes — like I was no one. Like I was nothing.

A year into our marriage, I got pregnant with twins. I thought the babies might bring him back to me, might restore what we'd had, might make us a real family.

I was wrong.

After that, Maeve only got worse. He stayed out every night — drinking at the social clubs, never coming home. He paraded Vanessa Rosati around openly, his precious first love, showing her off at every sit-down and private dinner without a shred of shame. He didn't care about my feelings. He didn't care that his pregnant wife was watching.

I confronted him. I screamed, I cried. Every photo of them together, every whispered rumor that reached me through the wives and associates, cut me like a knife. I sobbed and demanded to know why — why he was doing this to me, why he'd forgotten every promise he'd made, why he was betraying everything we had.

Maeve just stared at me, cold and mocking, like I was some raving lunatic.

"Are you done yet, Adriana?" His voice could have frozen steel. "You got what you wanted. You're the young Mrs. Falcone now. You're carrying heirs for the Family. The name, the position, the money — you have it all." His lip curled. "What more could you possibly want?"