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?"

"Don't stand there acting like you've suffered some great injustice. It makes me sick." He let out a cold laugh, contempt dripping from every word. "You think I actually wanted to marry you? If the Don hadn't threatened to put a gun in his own mouth, if your grandfather hadn't once taken a bullet for this Family, if we didn't need you to produce an heir for the Falcone bloodline, you think you'd have any right to stand beside me? Adriana, face reality. You were never someone I loved. Not before. Not now. Not ever."

Every argument. Every sneer. Every cold shoulder. Each one was a blade, plunging into my heart, shredding it piece by piece. I'd cried. I'd ached. I'd humbled myself. I'd begged. And in the end, all I ever got was his coldness and disgust.

After that, I stopped asking why. Stopped fighting. Stopped pleading for even a scrap of his tenderness.

My heart had died completely. All I wanted was to quietly watch over my two precious daughters, to see them grow day by day, to watch them laugh, to watch them play. As long as I had them, I had a reason to keep living. My life still had meaning.

But I never imagined that even this humble wish was something Maeve refused to grant me. With his own hands, he pushed my babies, my hope, into hell.

I sat on the cold bench in the funeral home, my fingertips tracing the fabric over my knees again and again. The burning ache from kneeling on the ground yesterday still lingered there, just like the wound in my heart: scabbing over, only to be torn open again. I had finally, completely accepted that suffocating truth. Maeve had never loved me. Not before. Not now. Not ever. Even his own daughters meant nothing to him. Not a shred of pity. Not a moment of tenderness.

On countless nights, I'd held my two sleeping children, gazing at their delicate faces, and felt my heart fill with comfort. They were so good, so well-behaved. Never fussing, never complaining. Even though their father was never home. Even when they saw other children at Sunday Mass with their daddies and felt that quiet sadness, they never once complained to me. Whenever I was upset, they'd reach out with their chubby little hands to wipe the tears from my face, their soft voices cooing: "Mommy, don't be sad. We're here with you. We'll take good care of you when we grow up."

I always thought that even without Maeve's love, even if life was cold and lonely, as long as I could watch my two babies grow, see them blossom from innocent children into graceful young women, watch them marry and have families of their own, my life would be complete. My life would be happy. I poured all my hope, all my tenderness into them. They were the only light in my dark existence. The only reason I had the courage to live.

But now, even that light had been snuffed out by Maeve's own hands. My children. My babies, whom I'd nearly died bringing into this world. My daughters, whom I'd cherished for five years. Gone. Gone forever. From now on, my life held nothing but endless darkness and despair. Not a single ray of light remained.

Dawn was just breaking, the night not yet fully faded, the air carrying a bone-deep chill. The funeral home stood in solemn silence, the faint smell of disinfectant mingling with grief. Two of Salvatore's soldiers waited near the entrance with their hands folded, eyes lowered, saying nothing. The cremation chamber doors slowly closed, blocking my last glimpse of my children. I stood outside, my body rigid, like a statue stripped of its soul. My tears had long since run dry, leaving only the burning ache behind my eyes and the hollow void in my chest.

I don't know how much time passed before a staff member carefully placed two small urns in my hands, murmuring, "My condolences."

I took them, and the cold seeped into my fingertips. They were terrifyingly light. So light my heart trembled. When they were born, they'd been so tiny, wrinkled little things, lying quietly in my arms, warm and soft. How was it that after only five years, they were even smaller, even lighter? So light I could barely feel them. So light it seemed they might vanish from my fingertips at any moment.

My eyes stung. Hot tears welled up, threatening to spill. I bit down hard on my lower lip, teeth sinking into flesh until the sharp taste of blood flooded my mouth. Only then could I force the surging grief back down. I couldn't cry. My children were watching. I had to be strong. I had to stay with them. I couldn't let them suffer any more.

My thumb found the edge of the ash locket at my throat and rubbed it, back and forth, the motion small and steady as breathing.

Lucia had stayed by my side the whole time. Her eyes were red and swollen, tear tracks still drying on her cheeks. She looked at me with worry and heartache, gently tugging my sleeve, her voice hoarse and soft: "Adriana, if it hurts, let yourself cry. Don't hold it in. You'll make yourself sick. I'm here."

I didn't answer. I didn't look at her. I just lifted my gaze past the small gathering and fixed it on Salvatore, who stood by the black car, preparing to leave for the consecrated family ground. The old Don had his hands clasped behind his back, his hair white, his shoulders stooped. Exhaustion and sorrow lined his face, and deep in his eyes, I could see guilt. His signet ring sat untouched on his finger. He wasn't rolling it. He had already passed judgment on himself.

Cradling the two small urns, I walked toward him, each step heavy, as if I were treading on knife points. The soldiers near the car straightened when I approached, but Salvatore held up one hand, barely a gesture, and they went still. I stopped before him and raised my head. My eyes were steady. Not a trace of hesitation.

"Don Salvatore." My voice was clear, each word deliberate. "The children will not be buried in the Falcone family ground. I'm changing their surname. From now on, they won't be Falcone. They'll be Morettis. They are not Falcone children. They are mine. Mine alone."