A hideous burn scar sliced across the palm of my left hand.

It was a souvenir from the nightmare of the car bomb five years ago.

Seeing Farrow stare at that scar, my soul screamed silently in mid-air.

"Do you see it, brother?"

"Back then, when Mom and Dad were trapped in the twisted wreck of the car, it was me who rushed forward like a madwoman, grabbing the red-hot door handle with my bare hands."

This scar was the proof that I had tried to snatch our parents back from the jaws of death.

The smell of my own burning flesh was a memory I could recall with perfect clarity, even in death.

I remember when Farrow arrived and saw my bloody, mangled hand. His eyes filled with tears of pain as he held it gingerly and asked me, "Does it hurt?"

But I couldn't feel a thing back then. All I wanted was to save Mom and Dad.

I was certain that if Farrow saw this hand, he would recognize me.

Even if my face was ruined, he would never forget this scar.

For a year after that, he would hold this hand whenever I woke from nightmares, apologizing over and over for not protecting me.

But the pain I'm in now, brother, is so much worse.

At that moment, Farrow's fingers were clenched around the body bag's zipper.

The sound of the metal teeth was like a countdown.

My soul drew closer, as if I could feel the coldness of his fingertips.

Look, brother. Look at this hand again, I beg you.

Just as the zipper was about to slide down, the shrill ring of a phone shattered the silence.

Farrow let out an impatient sound, released the zipper, and answered the call.

The firm, anxious voice of our aunt, Sophia, came through the speaker.

"Farrow, where is Grace? Today is the family's prayer day. She never misses it."

Aunt Sophia was the most powerful elder in our family, and one of the few people who still cared about me after our parents died.

Hearing her voice, I almost wanted to cry. I wanted to hug my aunt and tell her that Grace was in so much pain.

Hearing my aunt mention my name, Farrow's expression darkened, his voice full of dismissive disgust.

"Aunt Sophia, don't waste your breath on her. She's probably holed up in some club, playing the big shot with the minor families, or slumming it with those wannabe writers."

"But..."

"It's nothing," Farrow cut her off coldly.

"She's just throwing a tantrum. It's her usual tactic. Hides for a few days so I have to search the whole world for her, just to satisfy her pathetic vanity."

"I've already sent people to look for her. She'll come crawling back once the money runs out."

"After Betty's book launch, once I'm done with this, I'll send her to a convent in Sicily to think about what she's done. That's all."

Hanging up, the frustration in Farrow's eyes was about to spill over.

That call had exhausted the last bit of patience he had for this corpse. He had no desire to look at it anymore.

"Get these samples to the lab. I want a rush on the DNA comparison."

He stripped off his gloves, tossed them into a bin with disgust, and turned to a capo behind him.

"I want definitive results, not a guessing game."

"And find out which unlucky family this stiff belongs to. Someone dumps a body on my turf, I'm going to skin the killer alive."

Just as he was turning to leave, the doors to the morgue were thrown open.

A young family soldier burst in, his face streaked with tears. He forgot all protocol, dropping to his knees right in front of Farrow.

"Don! Please! Help me!"

I recognized him. His name was Luca, one of Farrow's most trusted bodyguards.

Farrow stopped, frowning at his distraught subordinate.

"Stand up and speak. Steele men do not cry."

The young man choked back a sob, but his voice trembled. "My sister... she's been missing for two days. Her phone's off, and she's not at home. She just turned eighteen!"

"She's the only family I have left, Don. Please, use your resources to find her!"

Looking at the young soldier's desperate eyes, the hard lines of Farrow's face actually softened.

He must have been thinking of Betty in that moment. It certainly couldn't have been me.

He stepped forward and patted Luca's shoulder.

"Don't panic. She's your sister, which makes her one of the Steele family's own. I won't let anything happen to her."

"Mobilize everyone. Scour the entire city to find her. Use my car."

I watched this scene; it felt like my soul was being ripped apart.

This young soldier's sister was missing for just two days, and he felt like his world was ending, even daring to storm in and beg the Don for help.

I had been missing for four whole days.

My brother not only felt no concern, but also thought I was just "throwing a tantrum," complained to our elders about my "crimes," and was busy planning my exile.

That night, Luca's sister was found.

She had just gotten drunk at a friend's house and overslept.

When Farrow heard the news, he personally called to comfort her and sent a gift to calm her nerves.

I couldn't understand it. He could show such empathy for a subordinate's sister.

Why was there nothing left for me but harshness and suspicion?

Word spread through the Family, praising the new Don's mercy and loyalty.

Only Uncle Zac remained in his office, his face ashen as he stared at the pending DNA request.

Two days passed. The identity of the body was still unknown.

The investigation into the brutal murder had hit a dead end. No clues, destroyed security footage, a ruined face, and filed-off fingerprints.

Rumors began to spread that the new Don couldn't even catch a killer who operated on his own turf.

For Farrow, this was the ultimate humiliation.

In his office, he hurled an expensive whiskey tumbler against the wall, sending glass shards flying.

"Useless bastards! You still can't ID the victim?!"

"My patience has run out."

I could see the dark circles under Farrow's eyes. I knew his insomnia was back.

An unidentified victim, a killer who had vanished without a trace.

I'm sorry, brother. I'm still causing you trouble, even in death.

Uncle Zac once again stood in his way, his old, trembling finger pointing toward the door.

"Farrow, I'll say it again. You can disown her as your sister, but I can't abandon her. Grace has been missing for four days! Four whole days! This isn't normal!"

"Your father entrusted you both to me. I have to see this through."

Farrow violently swept the files off his desk. Papers fluttered through the office like snowflakes.

"You're still going to bother me with that spoiled brat Grace?"

"I've got a goddamn corpse on my hands and the Family's reputation is in the toilet, and you want to talk about her? All she does is cause trouble! If she dares to miss the launch tomorrow, I'll let her rot in Sicily!"

I shrank into a corner, my soul feeling a chill that went straight to the bone.

Brother, you'd rather worry about some random dead girl than spare a single thought for your own missing sister.

The irony is, that corpse is me.

Just then, the intercom on his desk buzzed.

Farrow picked it up, his tone explosive. "Speak."

"Don, someone claiming to be a publisher's editor is looking for Miss Grace, said something about her manuscript..."

"You dare forward this garbage to me?" Farrow's rage erupted.

He roared into the receiver, his voice dripping with contempt.

"Tell that editor I don't give a damn about the cheap, smutty little stories she writes! That kind of trash is a disgrace to the Steele name! Tell him to get lost!"

Click.

The call was disconnected.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a giant hand.

He knew I'd had a passion for writing since I was a child. He used to support my dream.

But after Betty arrived, she would often remark, intentionally or not, in front of Farrow that the romance novels I wrote were vulgar and worthless.

Since then, my writing had become nothing but "garbage" in his eyes.

How amusing. This so-called garbage was still worth her every effort to steal.

Farrow, his anger still simmering, grabbed his personal phone and rapidly typed out a message.

[If you dare miss Betty's launch tomorrow night, Grace, don't blame me for sending you to Sicily to feed the fishes!]

I stared at the red exclamation mark, wanting to cry but unable to shed a tear.

You don't have to send me, Farrow.

I'm in the refrigerated drawer right next door. I'm not going anywhere.

The office door creaked open.

Betty walked in carrying a tray. The sweet smell of cookies instantly masked the tense, gunpowder-like atmosphere.

Her eyes were red, like a frightened deer.

The hostility on Farrow's face vanished. He strode to meet her, his voice full of concern. "What's wrong, sweetheart? Who bullied you?"

Betty bit her lip and set the tray down, deliberately revealing a prominent bruise on her wrist as large tears rolled down her cheeks.

Her acting was good enough to win an Oscar.

Farrow grabbed Betty's hand, his voice suddenly tense. "How did this happen? Who did this?"

Betty flinched, her voice pitiful. "It's nothing... brother. I was just careless."

"Tell me the truth!"

Betty sobbed, her voice as quiet as a mosquito's buzz. "It... it was sister Grace."

"I ran into her on my way here. I begged her to come home, but she... she pushed me, and said..."

"She said I was a cuckoo in the nest, a little thief."

As she spoke, she trembled and pulled something from her pocket, placing it on the desk.

It was a silver cross pendant, its edges worn.

"She threw this in my face and said she didn't want anything from this family anymore."

The moment I saw that pendant, I wanted to slap her across the face.

That was a gift from my mother, the only piece of her recovered from the fire five years ago.

I cherished it. I always wore it around my neck, never taking it off, and swore I'd be buried with it.

That night, when I was tied to the chair, one of those bastards had ripped it from my neck.

So this is where it ended up. In her hands, as evidence of how I had "hurt" her.

Uncle Zac, who had just returned, saw the cross and his face changed drastically. He lunged forward and snatched the pendant.

"That's a damn lie!"

Uncle Zac glared at Betty, his voice hoarse.

"Farrow, open your damn eyes! This necklace was her life! She would have starved before selling it. How could she throw it away? And how the hell did Betty get it?!"

Terrified by Zac's fury, Betty shrank into Farrow's arms, trembling.

"Enough, Zac. The facts are right in front of you. That lunatic Grace is jealous of Betty. There's nothing she wouldn't do."

"Since she wants to cut ties, I'll grant her wish!"

Farrow laughed, a furious, bitter sound, and pulled out his phone, putting it on speaker.

"I'm going to drag her back here myself and make her apologize to Betty's face!"

"Beep... beep... beep..."

This time, after a long wait, the call connected.

I froze. I remembered my phone was still at that hellish chemical plant...

Farrow was about to roar, "Grace, you..."

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end was not mine.

The voice on the other end was gruff, a man's, nearly drowned out by the howl of wind and crackle of static.

"Don... it's the leader of the search team at the abandoned chemical plant on the outskirts."

"We found this phone in a mud pit at the scene."

"The screen is shattered... and it's covered in blood."

Farrow's hand, holding the phone, froze in mid-air. His knuckles turned white, as if he had been struck.

"You said... where?"

His voice was hoarse, a strangled sound of raw fear.

"The chemical plant. The primary crime scene."

Farrow didn't even hang up. He couldn't wait for a car to be brought to the door. He bolted out into the rainy night.

He didn't even glance back at Betty, who was still standing behind him, her face a mask of tears.

"Farrow..." Betty reached for his sleeve. "Where are you going? You promised you'd come home with me..."

For the first time, Farrow shook her hand off without a second's hesitation, without a single word.

I followed him.

How could I miss the moment my dear brother was about to witness the cruel truth?

I floated in his passenger seat, watching as he floored the accelerator on the rain-slicked highway.

The speedometer climbed to 200 miles per hour.

I almost wanted to laugh. So, my brother did know how to feel worried.

What a shame. It was far too late.

The black sports car tore through the police tape at the abandoned chemical plant.

The pungent smell of chemicals and rust hit him. Farrow leaped out of the car before it even came to a complete stop.

One of his men, trembling, handed him an evidence bag.

Inside was a pink phone with a shattered screen. Dried, dark red blood was caked in the cracks of the casing.

That was my blood.

Seeing the phone's pink case, Farrow's body shuddered. He knew it was my favorite cartoon character.

Farrow took a deep breath. His finger hovered over the screen for half a second before he began to type in the unlock code.

He tried my birthday. Incorrect.

He tried the anniversary of our parents' death. Still wrong.

One last chance before the phone locked itself.

Farrow's breathing grew rapid, and sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Farrow..." Uncle Zac tried to stop him. "Don't try. Let the tech guys handle it..."

Farrow ignored him. As if on instinct, his fingers hovered over the numbers.

It was his own birthday.

The screen lit up.

The wallpaper was a photo of us as kids in Hawaii. He was giving me a piggyback ride, grinning like a fool under the sun.

Farrow stared at the photo, then staggered, nearly collapsing to the ground.

Uncle Zac caught him, his voice old but strong. "Hold it together, Farrow. This is not the time to fall apart."

Farrow pushed him away and stumbled into the room filled with instruments of torture.

I followed him, once again mustering the courage to step into this hell.

The blood splattered on the walls had dried to a dark brown.

In the center of the room was a rusty iron chair, surrounded by a barbed whip and barrels of industrial-grade acid.

Farrow stared at the chair, the corners of his eyes turning crimson.

His mind was replaying what must have happened here, while my soul relived the nightmare in a shuddering trance.

The memory washed over me like a tidal wave, drowning me.

It was four days ago.

Betty had lured me here, using the lie that Farrow was injured.

The moment I pushed open the door, a rough hand clamped over my mouth, and I was thrown violently to the ground.

Ropes bit into my flesh. I was bound to that chair, a lamb to the slaughter.

Betty, who always acted so weak she couldn't even twist open a bottle cap, was now swirling a glass of red wine, looking down on me.

"Well, look who it is. Our little charity case of a mafia princess."

"Does it hurt, sister?"

She ground the tip of her high heel into my ankle, her laughter echoing.

"You really think brother is coming to save you? Dream on. He's busy picking out a dress for my book launch right now."

"You're insane! What do you want?!" I struggled against my bonds.

"What do I want?" Betty took a sip of wine. "I want to get rid of you, you useless obstruction."

"As long as you're alive, that idiot Farrow will never fully trust me."

"So, what I want is for the entire Steele family to burn with me. And you are the first sacrifice."

She snapped her fingers, and a tall man emerged from the shadows.

Years on the run had hidden his face in the shadow of a hood, leaving only a pair of dead eyes visible.

He was carrying an iron rod, still dripping with blood.

"Go on, Dad," Betty cooed. "Don't let her die too quickly. Let's savor the main course."

"What did you call him?" I looked up, shocked. "Aren't you an orphan?"

Betty sneered. "Oh, Grace. That's why I always say you're a special kind of stupid. I'm no orphan. I never saw the inside of an orphanage."

Before I could process her words, a blinding pain made me scream.

The man grabbed a fistful of my hair, forcing my head up.

"This one is for what your father did."

"Those eyes... they're exactly like your damn father's."

"Your father slaughtered my brothers and burned my home to the ground. Today, I take it all back from his daughter, piece by piece."

In a flash, the fragments of memory clicked into place.

Killed his brothers, burned his home...

Seven years ago, my father had indeed wiped out a family called Rossi. They had broken the rules of the underworld by trafficking people.

It was a rare, bloody business.

The story goes that the head of the Rossi family swore on his deathbed to wipe out the Steele bloodline.

My eyes widened in terror as I stared at the snarling face before me.

"You're... you're from the Rossi family?"